by Jon Mills
“Why so much interest?”
“Just curious. We moved here because we heard it was safe. Starting to think that we might be wrong. I like to know areas and people we should be avoiding.”
He chuckled. “Well you can start by giving Atomic Charley’s a wide berth. That place is nothing but a magnet for trouble.”
He sat back down and leaned back in his seat with his mug.
“That’s what Bo said,” Jack added.
“And you would be smart to heed his advice.”
“And what about the Mitchell brothers?”
Garcia was in the middle of gulping down a mouthful of coffee when he stopped and lowered the cup. “What do you know about them?”
“Only that they can tend to be a little high-strung.”
“High, would be the word.” He eyed them both and then placed his cup on the table in front of him. “Word of advice. Keep your head down, do your job or find another location to start your fishing business. I hate to ward off new folks as that’s exactly what this place needs but I would be doing you an injustice if I didn’t give you fair warning. If you stick around, you are going to be in for a bumpy road.”
“Oh we’re not looking for trouble, lieutenant.”
“Maybe not but trouble has a way of finding people in this county.”
There was an awkward pause before he rose from his seat and extended his hand. “You’re free to go. I’ve got everything I need, if I have any further questions I will be in touch.”
“Right. Thanks.”
“Oh and speak with Officer Davis, he’ll give you a ride back to your vehicle.”
After leaving the department Isabel acted as if her amateur sleuthing skills had just bought her a one-way ticket back to Clearville in the eyes of the FBI. They had only scratched the surface. Sure, they had got wind that the Mitchells were rough guys and the county was prone to violence but that wasn’t an open invitation to jump in bed with the enemy.
After the cruiser disappeared into the night leaving them out in the pouring rain, they double-timed it over to their waiting truck. Atomic Charley’s was closed, dark and there was still yellow tape surrounding the scene. No one was around except them.
The second they got in the truck, Isabel unloaded.
“Debt collector, really? And I didn’t do jack shit to chase you down? I risked life and limb in pursuit of you and what’s it given me? Nothing but a headache, and to top it off I’m on the shit list with the bureau. Whatever chance I had of leading a normal life is now gone.”
“I didn’t ask you to show up at my door.”
“No, no you didn’t but—”
“But what, Isabel? All I’ve heard from you is how much this has screwed up your chance at being viewed in a good light with the bureau. Have you forgotten the shit they pulled?”
“I might not agree with the politics of it all but I know which side of the tracks I’m on.”
Jack chuckled. “Really? Yeah, well you crossed over to my side when you unshackled me and let me walk out the bureau’s door. Just remember that.”
The rain beat against the window; streams of droplets streaked in the wind as she turned over the engine and flipped the lights on.
The moment it lit up the front of the bar, there were four men standing there with guns in hand.
Chapter Eleven
Isabel reached for the Glock wedged between the seats. Jack placed his hand on hers and told her to not do anything. He recognized one of them as Jimmie Mitchell. The others they hadn’t seen. All four of them were wearing black fisherman rain jackets and staring ahead. Jimmie made his way around to the driver’s side and rapped at the window.
She brought it down and he gestured with the gun.
“Turn the engine off.”
Isabel didn’t say a word, and simply complied. Jack’s eyes drifted over the men who were focusing on him, one of them had circled around to his side and opened the door.
“No need to be nervous. We just want a talk,” Jimmie said. “Come on, hop out.”
They stepped out into the warm rain and were ushered around the back of Atomic Charley’s. A shard of yellow light came from the rear door. It was partially open. Led inside, they were greeted by the sight of Bo Peterson who was seated inside a room that housed barrels of beer and stacks of alcohol. Once they were brought in, one of the men closed the door behind them and Jimmie paced slowly up and down for a few seconds before finding the words.
“Who are you?”
“Seems everyone wants to know,” Jack replied. “Jack Redford, and Isabel, my wife.”
“So why did the cop want to speak to you?”
“Seems obvious, doesn’t it?”
He puckered his forehead and stepped in closer as if he was trying to intimidate Jack. Jack had to restrain himself from laughing. Jimmie was a little over five foot two, rugged in appearance but beyond that everything else about him was sloppy.
Jack was wary of saying any more. He’d seen these types of situations countless times.
“To ID the shooter,” Jack said.
“And did you?”
“I pointed out a photo.”
“So you got a clear shot of him?”
“Not exactly.”
He tossed him a confused expression and whirled his Smith & Wesson revolver around. “Well either you did or you didn’t. Which is it?”
“It was dark, I told him what he wanted to hear.”
“So you aren’t sure?”
He glanced at Isabel.
“Don’t look at her. Did you or did you not ID the shooter?”
There was a fifty-fifty chance they were going to be shot based on what he’d said. On one hand if he told him that he did, perhaps he would ask for a name, which of course Jack didn’t have, or the guy might have worked for Jimmie. It wouldn’t have been the first time that he’d seen someone knock off an individual yet make it look like a rival gang had done it.
“Like I said, it was dark, he was Hispanic, that’s all I know.”
He offered the vague answer in hopes that it would leave them in the clear. Jimmie bit down on his lower lip and nodded his head slowly while studying Jack’s face. He was looking for a crack in his demeanor, a way of deciding if he should drop them here and now. If he did, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Both of their weapons were in the truck.
“Jimmie, is the gun really necessary?” Bo asked. That obviously was not the right thing to say or time to say it, as Jimmie went over to him, and tapped him on the side of the face with the barrel. “You know, Bo… keep your trap shut.”
He backed up, and a second later Jimmie backhanded him across the top of his forehead. Bo let out a groan and toppled over.
“Jimmie, that’s enough.”
Another man, blond, stubble-faced, stepped in. He looked to be older. Whoever he was, Jimmie listened to him.
“Very well. One last question. Did you mention to the cops that I fired my weapon?”
“No,” Jack said straightaway.
“I wasn’t asking you. I was asking her.” He moved over to Isabel and brought the gun up to her face and trailed the barrel down her neck and over her breast. Jack wanted to lash out, and was about to say something when Isabel spoke.
“I was too busy avoiding getting shot. And seriously, why the hell would I care if you pulled a gun on them? Hell, had you been a better shot, perhaps that asshole would be in the ground by now.”
A snicker was heard from behind Jimmie and he turned his head slowly and glared.
“But I’m guessing you fire blanks most of the time.”
Jack couldn’t believe his ears. Here they were, surrounded by four guys with loaded guns, and she was giving him shit. Jimmie stared at her for a second with a dead serious face as if he was about to slap her, and then a smile spread across his face and he started laughing.
“You’ve got a fiery one there.” He shook his finger at Jack. “Damn, where do I get one like that?”
The ot
hers joined in the laughter. “Look, we’re just fucking with yah. Can’t be too careful nowadays,” he said before tucking his weapon in the front of his pants. Jack hoped that it accidentally went off.
“So word is you’ve started your own charter business?” the blond guy asked.
Jack studied them before replying. “That’s right. Yeah. We’re down in Marina Park.”
“You might want to swing by tomorrow. Business can be competitive and we like to maker sure that everyone has a fair chance.”
“By that you mean?” Isabel piped up.
Jimmie replied, “Just swing by tomorrow. We’ll fill your old man in on the details. That is of course if you want to?”
Though it was posed as a question it didn’t feel like one.
“Well let’s get out of here, boys. It’s a big day tomorrow.”
And just like that, it was as if a switch had been flipped and they were acting like good ol’ boys, just everyday working men, but it was pretty damn clear they weren’t. Anyone else might have assumed they were just pulling a prank but Jack understood the game. The dangerous ones were those who could kill someone and go straight back to their family after and it wouldn’t affect them one bit. It meant they were comfortable. It meant they had done it before.
“Nice to meet yah.”
No apologies were given for bearing arms or waving them in Isabel’s face. Jack got the sense they were used to throwing their weight around and getting their way.
“Put a Band-Aid on that cut, Bo, and stopping whining like a little bitch. It’s just a scratch.”
Jimmie eyed them again before heading out the door with a grin decorating his face.
After they were gone, Isabel tended to Bo, helping him up and taking him over to a first-aid kit while Jack went to see what direction they headed in. Outside the rain was coming down in sheets and turning the sandy walkways into mini streams. They were gone. No vehicle could be heard, no lights could be seen. He assumed they had parked farther down.
When he came back in, Isabel was dabbing a wet cloth on Bo’s forehead. He seemed to be grateful for the assistance. Jack wasn’t in a hurry to go, he wanted a few answers before he risked heading in to the lion’s den.
“Jack, you think you can grab me a bottle of bourbon from behind the bar? Grab yourselves a couple of glasses as well if you like.”
Jack retrieved it and handed it to him, he unscrewed the top and took a hard swig, indicating he was going to be finishing the bottle. He poured out a couple of glasses. Isabel didn’t touch hers but Jack tossed it back.
“Damn Mitchells. I swear one of these days they are going to get what’s coming to them.”
“You know them all?”
“Everyone does. If you’re living on Chokoloskee, and not working with them, you don’t last. Everyone has their hands in the cookie jar.”
“And by that you mean?”
He glanced at them and then became tight-lipped.
“They’ll explain. I think I’ve said enough for one night.”
“How come you haven’t just upped and moved?”
“This is my livelihood. Yeah, my wife and I started over twenty-eight years ago. I’ll be damned if I will be run out by some Neanderthal thugs.”
Jack eyed him and nodded slowly.
“Jimmie calls the shots, does he?”
Bo snorted. “Jimmie? You got to be kidding. What, you think he calls the shots because he waved that gun around like he had something to prove? No, it’s not the outspoken ones you have to be careful of, it’s the quiet ones. They might say very little but they let their actions speak for themselves. Trust me, I have the scars to prove it.”
He lifted up his shirt and twisted ever so slightly. There appeared to be a large gnarly scar that looked like a raised portion of a dry lake bed.
“They did that to you?”
He pulled his shirt back down. “Believe me I got off lucky.”
“So what? They demanded money from you?”
He shook his head. “No. They require I turn my head the other way from time to time. The first time around I didn’t. So they made it crystal clear.”
He knocked back the bourbon like it was bottled water.
“What about others? You know, folks on the island? Have they ever spoken out against them?”
He scoffed. “You’ve got to be joking, right?” He took another swig. “Oh people have spoken out. Believe me. And then they went missing. I tell you this, if the cops sweep the bottom of the bay, I wouldn’t be surprised if they found an entire family down there.”
Jack turned over a seat from the top of a table and sat down.
“Listen, I tell everyone the same thing when they are new. If you like dancing on the wrong side of the law, then Chokoloskee is going to be right up your alley, but if you’re thinking of planting roots and starting a family, get the hell out. Your kids will thank me for it, if not, you will.”
“Seems to be a lot of folks warding us off from getting involved. Perhaps they’re nervous of losing profit.”
He shook his head as if he knew far more than they ever would. What stories he could probably tell them, Jack thought.
“There are good people on the island, not all of them have their feet in the Mitchells’ business and they survive but it’s a meager existence. There was a bar on the island for a while but it closed up. The owner didn’t see eye to eye with how they wanted to run things.”
“So they do call the shots?”
“Well duh, newsflash,” he muttered before consuming more golden liquid. “Look, I shouldn’t even be telling you this but you strike me as good folk who just happened to arrive on the wrong night. I can’t leave here but you two certainly can. There are tons of other areas in Florida that you can run a charter business from. Go home, collect your belongings and get out before you’re in too deep.”
“And if we don’t?”
“It’s your funeral.”
There was silence among them for a few minutes. Only the rain could be heard drumming out a heavy rhythm on the tin roof.
Chapter Twelve
Jimmie Mitchell returned by himself to one of the stash houses that held several kilos of coke and heroin. It was located on the east side of the island at the end of Chokoloskee Drive. He’d purchased the place five months ago because he figured he could make more money taking some of the narcotics and distributing them in Naples.
The property wasn’t in his name, and the few who knew about it were told that he’d bought it for a couple of girls that worked for Ray. He’d overheard them talking among themselves at the bar one night when the idea came to him. It was a win-win situation. They were tired of being pimped out and taking risks driving back and forth to Miami, and he needed someone who could house watch, and take the gear over to Naples. It was closer and far less police watching the roads.
In many ways this was his out. He figured he’d only have to skim off the top for another year and he’d be able to disappear from Chokoloskee and purchase a property in the Bahamas or Greece. He’d always wanted to go international but with the huge cut that Ray was taking, paying crew and then distributing what remained among themselves, it was going to take at least five years before that would happen. No, he needed to speed up the process.
The beauty of the business they were in was even though the Cubans ordered a specific amount of coke, they rarely ended up with exactly that. The Coast Guard caught boats, and others had to toss their load over the side. All of which meant taking a small amount off the top of each kilo was rarely questioned. If anything, it would be the Colombians that would get the shit end of the stick. No one trusted them. But Ray? They knew he had a good reputation.
Jimmie had been taking a cut, then repackaging the original block of heroin and coke. So far no one had figured it out. The few times he took more than he should have, he just replaced it with fake heroin. The key was to get it to match the same color. There were three types of heroin, black, white and brown.
A little bit of experimentation with some household products and they were able to quickly pass it off as the real thing.
Jimmie shook the rain from his coat as he stepped into the kitchen. It was late. Close to midnight but he was paranoid about getting a visit from Ray. It wouldn’t take long for him to catch wind of the incident down at the bar. The truth was the Hispanic was from a rival gang in Naples. Once they learned that he was selling in their territory they had come looking for him. It was going to raise too many questions. There was no way in hell any local rival gang would show up and threaten Ray, they had more sense than that, his reputation preceded him.
But Jimmie? He was fair game.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the kitchen was the girls weren’t in their usual spot. He traipsed into the living room expecting to find them cozied up watching some chick flick. It didn’t matter how old women got, they loved that mushy shit.
He rounded the corner and his nostrils flared. In the darkness of the room, the TV was glowing. It was tuned in to Netflix. At first, it wasn’t the sight of them out cold with a needle stuck in their arm that bothered him. He’d seen that happen a few times. In fact it was part of how he managed to keep them from squealing to Ray. Give them room and board, food, their own little stash of drugs and they were as happy as a lamb. No, he wasn’t pissed at that. It was the fact they had taken out a brick and treated it like it was their own. All of his were marked with the symbol E5 and right now there were two blocks on the table cut wide open.
His brow knit together. “What the fuck?”
Seeing there was no reaction from either of them, he went over and gave Molly a slap.
“Wake up. I told you not to use any of this. It’s spoken for. If I don’t get this to Naples, I’m screwed.”
He was in such a panicked state that he didn’t even notice that they weren’t breathing. He turned and started scooping the white powder back into the package. It was scattered all over the table and floor. Alongside it were small open bags of heroin, needles and a spoon.