Narc - Debt Collector 7 (A Jack Winchester Thriller)

by Jon Mills

  There was silence between them for a minute or two.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. But isn’t that common? I mean, it comes with the territory, right?”

  “Yeah it does but it doesn’t make it any easier. I have spent the better part of my career avoiding undercover work for the simple fact that few in the department know about what is usually taking place until shit goes down.”

  “And?”

  “He might have survived if people were aware of what was going on. It means if we get stuck out there, we are on our own. There is no backup coming.” She looked him directly in the eye. “We are expendable. That’s why we’re here.”

  Another car shot by, this time hauling a small fishing boat behind it.

  “And there was me thinking I had just hit the lotto,” he replied in his usual sarcastic manner.

  “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

  He could see that she was in no mood for joking. They pulled back out onto the causeway and she spent the rest of the short journey to the park in silence. Of course he knew what he was getting himself into. He wasn’t stupid. He understood the dangers connected to drug dealing. It was one of the many reasons he avoided it when working for Gafino. Hell, it had been a deal that went bad that landed him in prison. But truth be told, he preferred rubbing shoulders with the underbelly of the world than to being back inside. At least he knew what he was up against. The walls of a cell broke even the hardest men.

  Everywhere, for as far as the eye could see, were palm trees and flowerbeds full of color. For a small island, residents seemed to take pride in their patch of sand, oyster shells and trailer parks. The island itself was nothing more than a speck on the map. Chokoloskee Island was located in the northwest corner of Everglades National Park, it had 359 residents and from what Isabel said, the climate was tropical all year round — warm winters and hot humid summers with a slight splash of rain in April and October. Though Jack had visited Everglades City he hadn’t any reason to make his way south onto the 150-acres of paradise.

  From the moment they arrived they could see that the way of life was slow. The entire island was surrounded by lush pristine waters, swamps and mangroves. Residents and tourists alike navigated their way around the sandy narrow streets by vehicle, golf cart, bicycle, or sandaled feet. It was odd to see so many residents sporting golf carts when there wasn’t a green for miles.

  As they took a right onto Demere Lane they passed by rows of trailers, RVs and mobile homes. They then headed south on Mamie Street before passing Everglades Area Tours and heading down Hamilton Road towards their home for the next few months, or for as long as it took to find out who was behind the influx of drugs.

  When they arrived at the property, it wasn’t much to look at but it did have one hell of a view of the bay. A steel chain-link fence enclosed a small patch of land around the home that looked as if it had been beaten by the weather. The gate was barely hanging by a hinge, and the eight palm trees out front were singed brown by the sun.

  “Well, home sweet home,” Jack said curling his lip up as Isabel’s eyes widened.

  “Not only does he give us the shittiest assignment but they chose the most dilapidated craphole on the island?”

  She killed the engine and Jack hopped out. “Ah I don’t know, a lick of paint and a good cleaning and it will be fine.”

  Unconvinced, Isabel remained in the truck as Jack trudged over to the doorway carrying a large duffel bag. “Honey, I’m home,” he said before casting a glance over his shoulder and chuckling. Under the carport was a used fishing boat on a trailer. The trailer tires were deflated. Isabel pushed her way out of the truck and joined him inside.

  From the moment he opened the door it smelled like dead fish. It was stuffy, humid and in a dire state. The floorboards were raised in one spot from water damage, and the windows looked like they hadn’t seen a cloth in a decade.

  “Well isn’t this a slice of heaven,” Jack said as he came in and turned around to find Isabel slack-jawed.

  She shook her head. “Oh no, I’m not staying in here.”

  “Come on, it’s not that bad.”

  Right then a cockroach scuttled across the floor and Jack stamped on it. Isabel backed out and got on her phone immediately. Jack began snooping around, opening cupboards, looking in the fridge that was unplugged. While it wasn’t the most sanitary of places, it was reasonably clean. He’d seen worse in New York City.

  “You expect us to stay in that shithole?”

  From inside Jack could hear Isabel yelling at someone on her phone. He glanced out the window and saw her pacing up and down. A small lizard darted across the front yard and she nearly fell ass over tit. He roared with laughter and she cast him any icy glare.

  Jack opened a few windows to air the place out. The entire place looked dated. Paint was peeling off the walls, and a circular brown water stain covered one section of the ceiling tile. He didn’t dare enter the bathroom. He had visions of seeing all manner of critters crawling out of the toilet. There were few things he despised more than a dirty toilet. Anyone would be right in saying that he was slightly paranoid over that one thing. Even after he moved into his new digs down in Key West, he had a plumber remove the toilet and install a new one. Too many times he’d use public restrooms and find piss all over the floor, or worse — shit. People were filthy pigs.

  Jack heard Isabel return just as he entered the bedroom and tossed his bag in the closet. He’d only brought the basics: three pairs of jeans, underwear, five T-shirts, two short-sleeved shirts, a couple pairs of shorts, a few toiletries and the rest was a Glock 22, a Benelli shotgun and plenty of ammo.

  “Do you know what Thorpe said?”

  “No, but I’m guessing you’re going to tell me,” he muttered to himself.

  “That asshole said that if I wasn’t happy with the location he could put in for a transfer to the local penitentiary.”

  Jack leaned against the door frame. “Well, look at it this way, they’ve given us three months to work on this, and as far as I can tell they don’t have anyone keeping tabs on us.”

  “Oh really?”

  She shifted her weight and pointed out the window and he made his way down to the living room. Across the street a gray, battered vehicle pulled up and two guys got out. Both of them were wearing flowery shirts, shorts, sunglasses and sandals.

  “Who the hell are they?”

  They glanced over and grinned before entering a large, modern RV.

  “Son of a bitch. Look at the RV they got.”

  “Isabel.”

  She looked more perturbed by the fact they had been given better digs than them.

  “Carson and Moore. Agents.”

  “But I thought they were just sending us?”

  “Yeah right, like they are going to let you loose with a stack of cash and weapons.”

  The cash was for buying drugs. While they were meant to be operating undercover and running a small fishing charter business, their initial goal was to integrate themselves with the locals, find out who was selling drugs, make a few purchases and bag the evidence. The hope was it would lead them up the chain and eventually get them an audience with the main man.

  “Why the hell would they make it that obvious?”

  “Are you not listening to a word of what I’m saying? They don’t trust us.”

  Isabel stormed out of the home and trudged over to their abode. Jack exhaled and waited there for a few more seconds before following her out. In the foul mood she was in, she was liable to club both of them. As Jack jogged over, someone shouted.

  “Welcome to Chokoloskee.”

  Jack turned his head but couldn’t see who said it. The RV door was open and he could already hear an argument ensuing. The last thing they needed was for locals to hear them having an argument or even just associating with the two agents.

  “Isabel.”

  Jack burst into the RV and then his eyebrows went up. “Damn, this is nice.”

/>   “Oh don’t you start,” Isabel said pushing past him and disappearing out of view.

  “Is she always like this?”

  Both of them nodded. He pursed his lips together. He’d always seen the relaxed side of Isabel, the “I’m done for the day” Isabel. Jack surveyed the insides for a few seconds before chasing after her. By the time he reached the house, she was on the phone yelling at Thorpe again.

  “Oh and you don’t think having two new residents is going to look suspicious?”

  Jack leaned against the wall waiting for the storm to pass. She glared at him while listening to whatever Thorpe was saying. Jack mouthed the words, “I’ll bring your stuff in,” before he returned to the truck.

  As he collected her bags which weighed like a ton of bricks he looked towards the bay and saw several yachts gliding through the water with ease. He was so mesmerized by the peacefulness of the area that he didn’t notice a golf cart pull up.

  “Hey there,” an elderly voice muttered. Jack turned to see a couple that must have been in their late sixties. “Couldn’t help notice you moved into the Farheights’ place. You purchase it from them?”

  “Renting.”

  “Where you from?”

  “New York.”

  “What brings you here?”

  What was this, twenty questions?

  Jack pointed towards the bay. “Fishing.”

  “Well let’s hope you catch something. It’s getting quite competitive around these parts.”

  “Let’s hope so. Hey, you wouldn’t know a good place to eat around here, would you?”

  “Most head over to Everglades City and Marco Island. There’s also some nice ones up in Naples if you’re willing to drive.”

  He nodded slowly. “I was hoping for something local. Closer to home.”

  “Well there is Atomic Charley’s. Though you might be best avoiding it. They tend to get a rough crowd in there at night. It’s okay in the day but the cops are always being called out.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  They said they were a few trailers down if he had any questions, then zipped away. Jack strolled back to the house. His mind was whirling with what danger lay ahead.

  Chapter Nine

  Atomic Charley’s was a shithole. Contrary to what the old coot had said, it was actually located just over the causeway. Everyone they had spoken to so far was either on a fishing vacation or working in the charter business. They came to find out that most bars were off the island because there just weren’t enough people in Chokoloskee to warrant anything more than one Cuban café. They drove past it on the way out, and it looked a helluva lot nicer than this dive. Jack made a mental note to visit it for breakfast the next day.

  Isabel pulled into the place and they both stared at the dilapidated sign that looked like some three-year-old had slapped it together using magnetic letters. An orange neon sign outside flashed the word: OPEN. It had an open concept, and by that he meant only two chipboard walls, a tin roof and the rest was covered in mosquito netting. The strange part was it was attached to a modern-style building that was being used as a bait and tackle shop.

  Inside the ramshackle excuse of a bar were a few tables and chairs that looked as if they had been stolen out of some school from the 1950s. It had a pool table that was worn out and torn, and a long rosewood bar off to the right. A few women were draped over men like beach towels. Dotted all over the place were alcohol and soda beverage signs.

  Out front in the lot, six Harley-Davidsons leaned to one side, all of which looked spanking new. Alongside that were a few trucks and cars. Bluegrass music seeped out and the smell of beer and crispy wings hung in the air.

  “So? You ready to rub shoulders with the locals, get liquored up and begin a six-month-long bar crawl?” Jack said, hopping out. He was dressed in a casual short-sleeved shirt, jeans and black boots. Isabel was wearing a pair of cut-off Daisy Dukes, sandals and a red top that showed plenty of cleavage and belly.

  “I look like a two-cent whore.”

  He waved a hand in the air. “It’s fine. Let’s go.”

  Jack took a hold of her hand before entering. The door itself was barely hanging on by rusted hinges. A few patrons cast a glance their way but most continued drinking, chatting and eating. Jack approached the crowded bar and noticed a few men checking Isabel out. The truth was she had a body that could turn heads, but he didn’t like the way they were leering at her.

  The barman stepped forward drying a glass with a hand towel. “What can I get yah?”

  “Two Samuel Adams.”

  One of the first things they noticed was how sun-sizzled everyone looked, the next was how relaxing the atmosphere felt. On the surface it looked kinda skanky, a real dive but the more he took in the sight of the locals he could see it suited their simple way of life. Nothing was fancy about it. They didn’t need the finest tables, or an upscale facility. It was real people and honest conversation that made the place what it was and for an evening in the middle of the week — the bar was crowded.

  The bartender came back and placed two cold ones down on beer mats. Condensation trickled down forming a half circle.

  “Nice place you got here,” Jack said trying to break the ice. If anyone might give them insights into who was who in a small town, it would be the bartender. They were like therapists to criminals looking to unload their woes, broken dreams and aspirations. One thing criminals all had in common, was they all liked to brag. Hell, it was the reason they broke the law. Jack had yet to see a criminal that was modest and humble. The rich craved attention. They couldn’t conduct business and have people not know what they earned. Their egos were bigger than their brains. They loved to toss their money around and that’s what Jack was looking for — who had the money?

  “Yeah, it’s not bad. Where you folks from?”

  Jack skirted around that and went straight to why they were there. “Just moved here, we’re living in Chokoloskee.”

  “Charter?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good luck. Stiff competition.”

  He was about to walk away and serve another customer when Jack probed a bit further. “From who?”

  “Everyone. Every few months I see another one come strolling in here with dollar bill signs in their eyes. It’s a tough life. Why did you pick it?”

  “I like fishing.”

  “Don’t we all.” He gestured to a sign above the door. It read: My wife left me. My dog died. But I still got my fishing rod. All’s good.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Jack said putting his arm around Isabel and pulling her to him. “This is Isabel.”

  He dried off his hands on a dirty white towel and extended one. Isabel shook it.

  “Bo Peterson. Nice to meet you folks. Here’s a menu, I’ll give you a few minutes to decide.”

  Jack and Isabel took a table in the corner so they could get a better scope of the place. A faint gust of wind blew in, bringing with it the smell of the bay.

  “I could get used to this.”

  “You already did, look where it got you,” Isabel said.

  He sipped at his beer. “What’s the problem?”

  “What isn’t?”

  He swallowed hard and then leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Really? Are you going to be like this all night? So we got dealt a shit hand, it’s got to be a lot—”

  “Don’t you dare say, better than prison. I’ve already had Thorpe reinforce that crap.”

  Jack paused with his beer touching his lip. “Actually I was going to say it’s got to be a lot better than being here with Cooper.”

  Isabel nearly spat out a mouthful of beer and Jack caught a smile. “There we go, I knew it was hiding somewhere.”

  She set her beer down and started browsing the menu. “Okay, you have a point.”

  Over the course of the evening they did their best to mingle with others. They hit the dance floor which had to have been the smallest dance floor in history. There was just e
nough room for two couples. As the alcohol kicked in and Isabel started to loosen up, she started to enjoy the atmosphere.

  They had been there for a couple of hours, eating shellfish, and drinking from a pitcher when a new crowd came in — mostly guys but a few women. They were a rowdy bunch and from the moment they entered, Jack watched the expression on Bo’s face change. He immediately told a couple sitting on high stools to vacate. They drifted across the room and stood by an old-style jukebox.

  “Hey Bo, get us several pitchers and put it on my tab.”

  “Um. Jimmie.”

  “Right. Right. You don’t have a tab.” He fished into his top pocket and pulled out a roll of bills, and thumbed off several. As Jack’s table was close to the bar he could see they were hundred-dollar bills. They guy he referred to as Jimmie slapped them on the bar and placed an empty beer mug on top. “There, satisfied? Now snap, snap!”

  He turned to the dark redhead he was with and she began sucking on his neck. He glanced over and Jack diverted his eyes. When he looked back at him, he was engaged in some small talk with several others. There was something about the way he effortlessly took command of the room simply by being there. It was the type of respect that a man gained from his reputation or those that he associated with. Maybe it was both.

  Jack rose from the table and Isabel grabbed his hand. “Where you going?”

  “The washroom. You want to come hold it?”

  She screwed up her nose and he chuckled to himself as he wandered into the bathroom. There were two urinals and one cubicle that was empty. He poked his head inside and looked on the walls. It was an amateur thing to do, and less likely to be done by someone who was pushing vast amounts of coke, but sometimes to find the trail, toilet walls were a gold mine. In New York when Gafino had got word of a competitor lowballing to steal his clients, he’d sent Jack to find out who it was. Of course it wasn’t as easy as walking into a toilet and looking on the wall but that’s where it started. Like a small thread, a phone number led him to a small-time dealer, which led him to his supplier, which finally brought him to the guy that was screwing everyone over. Jack saw to it that he didn’t return to New York again.