by Scott Cook
“Oh! Your name Sharon?” the man inquired, seeming very surprised by that.
“Who are you?” Sharon asked, her right hand resting on her hip but sliding surreptitiously toward her ass.
“Sorry, ladies… it’s not like we get a lot of strangers that look like you around here,” The man observed. “Rick mentioned he had a niece and I happen to know that she’s friends with a woman named Lisa… who’s involved with and partnered with a man name of Jarvis.”
I wanted to reach for my gun, too, but stayed casual. I narrowed my eyes at him, “She asked you a question, Mister. Who are you?”
His surprise was gone now and he seemed to relax. He stuck out a hand and smiled, “I was told to look out for you ladies. It’s a bit of a story… mind if we go inside or at least out back? I’d rather not have this conversation in public, y’know what I mean? It’s about Rick… oh, and as for my name… it’s Phil. Phil Carver.”
28
To my surprise, no police showed up. I’d have thought the Fort Myers cops would have been called with all the activity of a handful of dudes running around the neighborhood and jumping fences and so forth. However, that apparently wasn’t the case and that suited me just fine.
“Okay, let’s have it,” I ordered Stick.
The gang banger sat on the edge of the dock and shivered only partly from the chilly night air, “We from Miami. Me, Diesel and B.B.”
“Gang?” I asked.
“Yeah… call ourselves the Vice Squad,” Stick said, a little pride seeping through his distress.
I managed not to laugh and instead asked: “That include Stank and Carver?”
Stick nodded, “Yeah, and some others.”
“What do you do out there? Run dope for Raul Montoya?” I asked.
I could hear Pak struggling to extract himself from the mangroves fifty feet away. He probably wasn’t trying hard to be quiet, but I wondered how Stick hadn’t heard us earlier.
“How you know about Montoya?” Stick asked suspiciously.
“I know a lot of shit, Stick,” I replied harshly. “I’d keep that in mind. Who hired you for this hit?”
“Some cracker,” Stick spat into the water. “Said he needed some bad fuckers for a couple of jobs. Guys wouldn’t cry like a bitch if things got rough.”
I scoffed, “So the Vice Squad is on the case, huh? You guys are real bad asses, huh?”
“Shit, man… nobody fuck wit’ da’ Vice Squad in Dade.”
“Yeah… I’ll bet,” I tried not to mock but was unsuccessful. “Well, you aren’t in Dade now, my friend. Who was this cracker? What’d he look and sound like?”
“Not a big dude… maybe five-ten, a buck eighty,” Stick said.“Maybe mid-forties. Brown hair, thin on top. Talks with a thick southern accent.”
John Pak had exited the trees and appeared at the foot of the dock by then. I turned to him, “You hear that? How about your guy? The one on the phone tonight?”
“I never met him,” Pak said. “Although the accent sounds right. The only guy I’ve met so far is named Carver.”
“Yeah… short, thick guy about my age?” I asked both men.
They nodded in agreement.
“Okay, gents,” I said, suppressing a shiver of my own. The night wasn’t too cold, thankfully, but that water had been and I wanted to get out of my wet clothes. “Let me explain a few things. First, your boss, whoever he is, kidnapped a man named Rick Eagle Feather. I want him. Second, Stick, your buddy Stank tried to kill me more than once. So if you think you’ve got a score to settle, shove it. He brought it on himself. You want retribution, get it from your boss. Where is he?”
“Shit, I don’t know,” Stick protested. “He just shows up at the crib one day. Him and Carver. Says he wants to hire us. Lays some jack down and says he’ll call us and let us know what to do.”
“Careful… but I thought Carver was in your gang?” I asked.“Nah… not at first, leastways. He hung out, though. Took him on a few jobs, few errands,” Stick explained. “The dude was cold and knew how to use that knife… shit…”
“What about the number he calls from?” I asked.
“A burner phone,” Pak said. “He told me as much.”
“Yeah, gave us a couple too,” Stick thugged. “Yo man… whatchu gonna do with me?”
“Nothin’,” I remarked. “You’re gonna get up and walk out to the 7-11, just like you told Diesel.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Stick got to his feet and stared at me, his expression half defiant and half unnerved still, “Yo… Stank was my boy, dawg.”
“Yeah, and I’m lettin’ you walk without snapping your neck for you,” I said, leaning in close. “If that’s not good enough, then I might as well pop a cap in that brain of yours… with your own gun… one less punk-ass dope pushing thug in the world. How’s that sound?”
“Whatever,” Stick grumbled.
“Beat it,” I ordered. “Come on, Doc.”
Stick began to stroll up the street, a bit of swagger in his step. I knew I hadn’t seen the last of him. It was an odd human trait, especially in bad humans, that it was only ever they who were wronged. It didn’t matter what they’d done, or if they’d started it. It only mattered that they got some payback.
After Stick was fifty yards up the road, Pak and I started walking back to his house. We were silent until we got to the first cross street and turned left.
“What about me?” He asked. “What do you plan on doing with me?”
“Doctor Pak,” I stated with a small sigh. “Your life is in considerable danger, do you understand that?”
Pak thought about it for a moment and then nodded, “I suppose you’re right… Jesus… all I wanted was to make a little pocket money.”
“Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas,” I mused. “The only small thing that might keep you alive is that only you know the name of the old woman who makes pottery over in LaBelle. But that’s not exactly a big mystery. A little detective work will uncover that info. So I strongly suggest you cooperate with me. I can protect you until this thing is resolved. What can you tell me about this guy who hired you?”
“Like I said, it was this Carver guy,” Pak explained. “He said that his boss needed my help and that there’d be a big payday in it for me. Said there was something big in the works if I helped out. All I had to do was pull a little switcharoo with some old bit of pottery… and now look.”
I found it very difficult to rake up much sympathy for the fool, “So what was the deal, exactly?”
“Carver comes to me and says that they need a Calusa artifact,” Pak said as we turned down his street. “He said that they needed something substantial. Gave me five grand to sneak that jar out. Then yesterday when those two women show up… well, that complicated things.”
“So you reported it immediately to your benefactor?” I inquired. “What the Christ for? You could’ve just kept your five grand and kept your yapper shut.”
Pak shrugged, “Guess I got greedy. Figured it was odd that the thing showed up again, so I call the guy… calls himself Gaspar, did I mention that? Anyway, I thought maybe it’d be worth something to him.”
I scoffed, “I guess you were right. What was his reaction?”
“He seemed… puzzled,” Pak said as we reached his house. I kept going toward my jeep and he followed. “He called back and seemed agitated. Said I should get a copy made ASAP. Said there’d be another five grand in it for me.”
I opened the rear door and began to peel off my wet clothing and shoes, “Did he say why he needed this item so badly?”
Pak only shrugged, “Said it was important. That it being returned was a problem. Warned me to keep quiet and that this was a big deal. Might even be political.”
I cast a quick glance around at the empty street and slid my wet boxer briefs off and wrapped a towel around myself, drying vigorously. I slid into a fresh set of skivvies and then sat on the edge of the
cargo area to slip into another dry pair of jeans.
“So what should I do now?” Pak asked.
“Come with me right now,” I suggested as I finished dressing.
“Where?”
“To follow wherever Stick went,” I said. “You want your car back, right?”
Pak looked bewildered, “My car?”
I sighed and pointed at his house, “You see a CRV in the driveway? B.B. took it someplace. My guess is that you were supposed to go, too. Dump the car and the body out in the sticks somewhere. Get the picture? Maybe… maybe even with the copy of the jar with you. Nice and neat. The wicked archeologist steals a priceless Calusa relic and then maybe drives into a ditch and dies with it. All the while, the real one is put back into the game.”
Pak visibly shivered, “What game?”
I snorted, “Not sure yet. Got my stuff?”
He handed me back my audio enhancer and phone. I checked the phone but hadn’t received a call or text from either Sharon or Lisa. I frowned at that and slid it into my pocket.
“I think I’ll stay here,” Pak stated.
“All by yourself?” I asked. “After having been the target of an assassination attempt?”
Pak tried to bluster it out, “That’s a big assumption.”
“Really?” I responded, not concealing my scorn. “You went to college, right? I mean you’ve got a Ph.D. and everything. You should be able to put two and two together, Pak.”
“Well… you chased them off, right? I should be safe now.”
I unlocked my iPhone and opened an app. After a moment, I turned the screen around to show Pak. On it, a small dot was moving east on I-75, the portion that was more commonly known as Alligator Alley.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Your CRV,” I explained. “I placed a GPS tracker on it before you left the research center tonight. That’s how I tracked you here.”
“Why is my car headed toward Fort Lauderdale?” Pak asked, seeming almost stubbornly obtuse about the whole thing.
“Because it and you were going to be dumped out there,” I explained, my patience beginning to fray. “I told you. They’d bonk you on the head, open the windows and drive the damned thing into the swamp! Don’t you get it? They’re going to come back for you, Doctor.”
“This can’t be happening…”
“Look, Pak, I don’t have time to argue,” I stated. “I’m going after them. You want to come along and drive your car back, I’d strongly recommend that. You want to stay here and hang out, so be it.”
I got into my Jeep and started the engine. Pak seemed to be pondering his situation. I gave him a few seconds and finally put the Jeep in gear. He suddenly stepped over and opened the passenger door.
“How do I know you can keep me alive?” He asked.
I glanced over at him and chuffed, “Got any better options? Any options at all?”
Pak closed the door and sighed, “I guess not.”
I drove us out of the neighborhood and made my way out to Seventy-Five and headed south. The north-south highway takes a hard turn in Naples and heads east across the Everglades to meet up with I-95 in Sunrise Florida, between Fort Lauderdale and Miami. Known as Alligator Alley, the highway slashes across endless seas of saw grass, spotted with cypress, hardwood and slash pines. Several sluiceways also make their way beneath the highway, allowing something of the flow of the water through the Glades. These overpasses also allow wildlife, especially gators and the Florida panther, to safely cross the highway as well. Several intersections also lead onto the maze of levies that crisscross the Glades as well as to seldom used and unpaved roads that wind into the primordial landscape.
“Why are you going after these guys and my car?” Pak asked as we began our eastward trek.
“Because there’s some heavy shit going on with this case,” I explained. “Stick and Diesel and the rest are leads. I want the man they work for, because either he knows who’s behind everything that’s been going on… or he is the man behind it.”
“This has to do with the Calusa or something?”
I chuckled, “Or something. It appears that it may involve who gets to manage the Ten Thousand Islands as a wildlife preserve or national park or who knows what. I don’t have all the pieces now… but I will.”
I had my phone clipped into a special mount on my dash. As I watched the screen, the CRV turned off the highway onto an unmarked trail just east of State Road 29. My map showed an overlook area on the north side of the highway and an unnamed road that led south into the swamp, possibly meeting up with County Road 833, the Snake Road. This led into the main Miccosukee Reservation area. The unnamed trail, actually labeled “unnamed trail” might be for the National Park Service to access different parts of Big Cypress.
At a first glance, it seemed remote, untamed and a perfect place to dispose of something… or someone.
“Not like the old days anymore, is it, boys?” I muttered as we passed by the intersection of SR29.
Pak looked over at me expectantly.
“The days when you could drive out into the wilderness and dump a body or hide,” I said. “It’s still possible, especially out here… but when you’re being tracked by people better equipped, things get trickier.”
“Who are you?” Pak asked.
“Just plain, simple Jarvis,” I replied vaguely. “A private investigator from Orlando.”
“Who happens to have access to advanced tracking technology?” Pak inquired archly.
“It’s 2021, Pak,” I tossed off. “What’s so strange about that? Everybody’s got a GPS in their phone now… okay, they’ve stopped. About two thirds of a mile south of the alley. Curioser and curioser.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“We’re gonna pull off the road and hike in,” I said. “Unless you want to sit in the car and wait, that is.”
Pak gazed at me with wide-eyed incredulity, “Walk out into the damned Everglades… at night? Unarmed and following at least three gangsters?”
“Geez, Doc,” I quipped as I slowed and turned left to park in the small overlook rest area. “When you say it like that… well, it sounds a smidge risky.”
He harrumphed, “You’re off your rocker, Jarvis. I’ve only known you for what… less than two hours and you’ve already done half a dozen crazy things.”
I pulled close to a small restroom building and shut the engine down, “Pak… can I call you Jonny? Great… well, Jonny… you’ve hardly even tasted the wine that is Jarvis. Just wait until you drink deep from the barrel. Know how to shoot?”
“Shoot!? Like… a gun?”
“No, dice… yeah, man, a gun,” I snapped a bit more irritably than I probably should have. Nobody could be this dense. I’m sure it was just that I’d been having a rough evening and wasn’t exercising as much patience as I ought. “In case you have yet to notice, these are bad guys. Bad guys like to do bad stuff and that usually involves like… guns, knives…. rope… uhm… bad words and other deadly weapons. So… can you shoot?”
“I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”
“Dandy,” I grumped. “But I bet you could point one, right? Fabulous! Let’s do this, Rico!”
“What?”
“Rico Tubbs… oh, I’m sorry, did you want to be Crockett? Hardly seems fair, though. Since you don’t like to shoot n’junk.”
“You’re a nutcase!”
“Meh,” I commented and retrieved my 1911 from the console along with two extra magazines. I handed them to Pak. “Just hold this. You won’t have to shoot it… probably.”
I opened the cargo area and retrieved my M4 with two additional mags as well. I also fitted my favorite night vision monocular over my left eye. The clothing I’d put on consisted of black jeans, a black long sleeved polo shirt and my combat boots.
“Ready?” I asked Pak, pointing across the highway.
“Who are you?” He asked again, bewilderment in his tone. “You’re not just a private e
ye. Not with night vision and a rifle.”
“Technically it’s a carbine,” I said, leading him across the four lanes, which were sparsely trafficked at that time. “The M4 is slightly shorter than a standard assault rifle such as an M16 or AR15. A bit lighter, reduced range but a very good tactical weapon. You can collapse the stock and even fire it one-handed if you really want to go all action movie and such. Oh, I almost forgot… put this on.”
I handed him an earwig and inserted my own and activated it. Pak looked at the small earbud-like device and finally placed it in his left ear and tapped the button.
“I’m One, you’re Two,” I explained. “Don’t use my name.”
“Are you with the CIA or something?”
I scoffed, “Those assholes? No way. I really am a private eye… among other things. Ever hear of ICE?”
He shook his head no.
“Well, let’s just say that the FBI and the CIA don’t hold a candle. ICE is way cooler! Ha-ha,” I stated. “I’m also a Navy SEAL… sort of. Okay, you ready for this, Two?”
His pale features seemed paler still in the light of the moon. He shook his head no but asked: “What’s your plan?”
“It’s dark, except for the moon and stars,” I said. “So that should help us get close. We’re going to walk in until we make visual contact, recon the scene and then decide what to do.”
I’d swear Pak shivered. He held up the big .45 semi-automatic, “How do I shoot this?”
I showed him where the safety catch was and how to set it or take it off. Then I instructed him on how to rack the slide and jack a round into the chamber.
“You’re now locked and loaded,” I said. “Ten shots. If you run out of bullets, the slide will lock itself open. You simply press this little widget here… slide in another mag… it only goes in one way… and then pull the slide back just like you did now. There’s another doo-hickey lever that releases it, but forget that. Stick to simplicity. Got it?”
He nodded dubiously.
“Okay. Now think of it like a fist,” I instructed. “You simply extend your arm and point. It’s got a kick on it, so keep that in mind. If you want to fire with two hands, do it like this…”