by Paul Carr
“You should remember Grimes,” Sam said, “from that operation that went bad in Marseilles a couple of years ago.”
Jack nodded and Sam watched his face for some reaction, but he just leaned forward and gazed out the windshield at the sky. He looked at Sam, frowned and said, “Doozy of a storm, huh!”
Chapter 4
SAM RAN in the downpour to his boat, a newspaper from Jack's car over his head. In his stateroom, he stripped off the wet clothes and changed into dry khakis and a sweat shirt. Still shivering from the sudden drop in temperature, he poured a shot of brandy and carried it into the lounge.
He picked up the phone and punched in a number he had not called in a long time, but knew from memory. He took a sip of the brandy while the phone rang. The vapors felt good in the back of his throat.
“Massage parlor,” the voice on the other end said. Sam heard rock music in the background. The music faded away to nothing.
“J.T.,” Sam said. His full name was John Templeton Smith III, and Sam had known him since his days in the military with Naval Intelligence. Now he spent his time as a computer criminal, taking money from the rich. Sam often wondered how well J.T. might have done in honest computer work, and concluded that he would have done poorly, because larceny fueled his genius.
“Sammy! I just thought about you.”
“What’s that massage parlor business all about?
“Oh, nothing, I didn’t recognize your ID. I see you finally broke down and got a cell phone.”
“Yep, sure did.” Sam had registered the phone to a fictitious person, as J.T. surely did with his own phone.
“Well, how you doing, buddy?”
“Not bad. You?”
“Hey, you know me, man. I’m doing great.” J.T. hesitated for a couple of seconds and Sam heard computer keys clicking. “If I could keep the bad guys off my ass I’d be even better. Anyway, what’s going on?”
People who lost large sums of money had been after J.T. for as long as Sam could remember, but J.T. always seemed to stay a step or two ahead of them.
“I wondered if you would check out some things for me.”
“Sure, what do you need?”
“You know anything about Philip Moran? I think he went by the name ‘Philly.’ Somebody killed him, maybe a couple of months ago.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember him. I figured he did something pretty bad to end up like he did.”
“The rumor mill said he stole a lot of money, and someone killed him for it.”
“Hmmm. How much?”
“I don’t know. A lot.”
J.T. clicked the computer keys again.
“Any chance some of that money’s still laying around?”
J.T. could smell money almost as well as Jack Craft, and he usually tried to cut himself a slice of the pie. Sam didn’t really care. He just wanted to find out about the girl and the guys trailing him. If J.T. found some cash in the process, more power to him. Besides, he had saved Sam’s life a year or so before, and used a computer better than anyone Sam had ever seen. He always came up with answers no one else had.
“I heard they never got the money back,” Sam said, “which is kind of strange. Why would you kill somebody before you recovered the money?”
“Yeah, bizarre.”
Sam could almost hear the gears turning in J.T.’s head.
“His daughter also might be involved in it, so see what you can find on her, too. Her name is Candi. Probably Candace.”
Sam also asked him to see what he could find out about La Salle. That might be overkill, but it couldn’t hurt to get the information. This La Salle sounded like someone he needed to know about, even if he never saw Candi Moran again.
“Yeah, okay, I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”
“That should take care of it...no, wait, you remember a guy named Grimes?”
“Yeah, I think so. Crazy dude and real skinny.”
“That’s him. He’s here tailing me. He looks a little different, but I’m pretty sure it’s him.”
J.T. said he would call Sam as soon as he had something, and hung up. Sam set the phone on the table, looked at the empty brandy glass, and got up for a refill.
The rain quit almost as quickly as it had started. Sam walked on deck and leaned on the rail, looking toward the parking area. The gray Dodge sat there, empty, but he knew they lurked close by with their eyes on his boat. He had been trying to figure how they had gotten on to him, and decided that they probably were listening in on Candi’s phone when Tommy Shoes said Sam would help her.
Sam glanced up the dock and saw Grimes and the other man walk from the direction of the marina restaurant carrying cups of something, gazing out over the channel like they were tourists.
****
J.T. DIDN’T call back until a few minutes past seven. Sam sat in the Marina Bar and Grill, finishing a bowl of conch chowder when the phone chirped. He couldn't hear well because of the bar noise, so he went outside to a walkway overlooking the water. The beer sign came on and popped a couple of times. He pressed the button on the phone and said, “Hello.”
The Dodge was still in the parking lot. The man with Grimes had come inside about fifteen minutes earlier and picked up an order of food.
“There weren’t any newspaper stories worth anything,” J.T. said. “This guy Philly Moran was just another citizen who met up with foul play, as far as they were concerned. My source had some stuff, though. He said the word is he stole millions from a bunch of investors and tried to disappear. Apparently, the other man you mentioned, La Salle, is the one who had him killed, but nobody could prove it.”
“What about the daughter, Candi?”
“I found out she's missing, and might have something to do with the money.”
“Huh,” Sam said.
“La Salle’s story proved a little harder to find, though. Looks like he didn’t exist until Moran got killed. That tells me he changed his name from something else.”
“What about Grimes?” Sam said.
J.T. chuckled. “My source says he died about five years ago.”
****
LA SALLE KICKED the air near the Sensei’s head. The Sensei jumped back and returned with a kick to the midsection. La Salle stepped back and blocked the kick, then spun and threw another kick toward the face. The Sensei’s eyes narrowed in the millisecond La Salle’s foot came toward his nose, and he dropped to the floor, swept his leg behind La Salle’s knee and La Salle hit the floor on his back. The thin mat did little to cushion the blow, and the boom of flesh striking the wood floor reverberated throughout the magnificent old beach house.
The Sensei stood and pulled La Salle to his feet, an awkward move since La Salle towered over him by at least a foot and a half and outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds. La Salle winced as he got to his feet.
Little dude better be glad I’m paying him to do this, La Salle thought, otherwise he’d be dead. The Sensei bowed and smiled. He enjoyed this. The little man possessed a tenth degree black belt and had trained students of the martial arts for more than twenty years.
“You very good, quick,” Sensei said. “Need work on defense, less on attack. All for today.”
La Salle drew deep breaths from the effort, and his shoulder-length hair dripped with perspiration. He bowed and mumbled his thanks, and the Sensei walked out of the room. La Salle watched him open the door and leave and saw Marcus outside the door grinning. Marcus came into the room, uninvited.
“You kick his ass again, boss?”
“Sure,” La Salle said. He never let the help watch his training. They might lose respect seeing a five-foot guy knocking him around the room. They wouldn’t appreciate his remarkable ability to just hold his own with the Sensei.
La Salle walked to the refrigerator at the far end of the dojo and found a bottle of spring water. He opened it and gulped it down, then tossed the empty to Marcus.
“I’m going for a shower. Let me know if Danilov calls.”
“Okay, Sally, will do.”
La Salle turned and walked toward the wall where a Japanese fighting sword hung on two brass brackets. He reached up, took the sword from the brackets and looked at it, admiring the nineteenth-century craftsmanship.
“You ever look at this sword, Marcus?”
“Sure, I seen it. One day when nobody was around I snuck a peek at it. It’s a beauty.”
“Yes, it is,” La Salle said, still looking at the polished metal. “Would you do something for me, Marcus? Would you hand me the cloth there on the table?”
“Sure.”
Marcus reached for the cloth and turned back, and La Salle slammed his hand over Marcus’ wrist, pinning it to the table, and swung the sword down as if chopping a pork loin. The blade cleaved the tips from Marcus’ four fingers.
Marcus screamed and jerked his hand away.
La Salle wiped the blood from the sword on the polishing cloth. He could tell that Marcus didn’t know what had happened until he saw the tips laying there, splattered with blood. His eyes went wide and he gasped when he looked at his hand.
“Why’d you do that?”
La Salle looked at Marcus and smiled.
“Don’t ever address me as Sally again,” La Salle said, his voice calm and soothing. “It’s either Mr. La Salle or boss. Okay?”
Tears flowed down Marcus’ cheeks. He glanced at his injured hand and nodded. “Splendid. Now, don’t forget about Danilov.”
La Salle re-hung the sword and walked out of the room. He untied his black belt with his free hand and looked down at the blood spattered on his white uniform. He made a mental note to send Marcus to the store for a fresh one.
****
SAM STEPPED onto Slipstream as his phone chirped again.
“Some help you were.”
It took a second for Sam to recognize the voice as that of Candi Moran.
“What do you mean? I saved your life.”
“Yeah, you took me to that quack house, where I was a sitting duck for those guys.”
“Well, sounds like you’re okay, now. How’s the bullet hole healing?”
“It’s all right,” Candi said.
He opened the hatch and went inside. “I went to see Tommy. He said he didn’t know where you were, but I guess he lied, huh?”
“Yeah, he knew. He told me to call you because you’re a stand-up guy.”
At the refrigerator, Sam pulled out a beer. He twisted off the cap and took a swallow.
“Are you?” she asked, “a stand-up guy?”
He turned off all the lights and parted the lounge curtain so he could see the lighted parking lot. The Dodge guys were back from dinner. “Sure,” he said. “If Tommy says so, why would you have any doubts?”
“Yeah, well, he doesn’t lie to me, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“So what do you want?”
“You going to help me or not?”
Sam drew a deep breath and sighed. “It depends on what you want me to do.”
“Meet me and we’ll talk about it.” She gave Sam the name of a coffee house in Little Havana.
Sam looked outside again, and said, “Okay, but make it in a couple of hours. I’ve got to take care of something first.”
He hung up the phone and went to his stateroom where he found an overnight bag and packed some clothes and travel items. Thinking he might not be back for awhile, he stuffed a couple stacks of cash in the zippered compartment, then put on a light jacket and dropped his Glock 9mm into the pocket.
Sam locked the hatch on his way out, walked to his car and got inside. The Dodge came alive, headlights flashing in his rearview mirror, and it followed a hundred feet or so behind him driving out of the marina.
He drove across the MacArthur Causeway and headed west toward the Everglades, the traffic light for that time of day. After about thirty minutes the city’s neon lights disappeared and thickets of mangrove and palmetto sprang up in the headlamps. Black water glistened just inches below on either side of the road, broken only by the occasional thrashing of creatures clinging by a thread to the ecological chain. Pieces of dead reptiles and raccoons dotted the side of the road, casualties of high speed assault by the humans.
An alligator waddled across the road not a hundred yards ahead and Sam slowed the car to let it pass. The gator never turned toward the car’s lights and displayed no urgency in escaping their inspection. It reached the other side and slid into blackness.
The old Indian store was near, so Sam kept his speed about forty and clicked on his brights. He spotted the sign within another mile and then the weathered wood building that had squatted there for at least a hundred years and now seemed to be sinking into the earth. An image of the place had stuck in his mind from a few months before when he drove to Naples. It had closed for the night, and no light escaped the ghostly structure. No one would find the guys tailing him until morning.
Slowing to turn into the shell-and-sand driveway, he glanced at his rearview mirror. The Dodge trailed a couple hundred yards back. Sam took his time so they wouldn’t lose him, and turned in, watching the Dodge’s lights go off as it neared.
He drove to the right side of the building, stopped, and turned off the engine, leaving the lights on. The car's beams illuminated the side of the store and an abandoned old stilt house about seventy feet beyond, down a narrow, overgrown path. He stepped out of the car, walked down the path, and reached the house in a couple of minutes, about the time the automatic feature turned off the headlights. Perspiration trickled down his neck inside the warm jacket.
Just before the lights turned off, Sam noticed a wooden stair leading up to the old house. He felt his way along, walked around the corner to where he thought he would be hidden and took his gun from his pocket. After a few minutes, his vision improved and he saw two men inching down the path.
They walked to the stairway, and one of them stumbled and cursed. A second later the man turned on a flashlight and held it low as they started up the stair. Sam stepped around the corner and swung the butt of his gun at the head of the one with the light. The man grunted and crumpled on the stairway. The light dropped onto one of the steps and rocked back and forth on the warped wood, illuminating the other man’s legs. The man turned and fired. The shot went skyward as Sam pulled the man’s feet from under him and dragged him down.
Sam picked up the light and shone it on the man with the gun. Grimes. He grinned as if he had just found twenty dollars.
“Hey, man, we aren’t after you.”
“I know,” Sam said.
“Then why all the violence? We’re the good guys.”
“Get up.”
Grimes seemed to be struggling to his feet when he jerked his gun toward the beam. Sam hit the gun with the flashlight, knocking it away, and smashed his own gun against the side of Grimes’ head. Grimes fell back to the ground and lay still. Sam pulled the gun from Grimes hand and stuck his own in his pocket.
The light still worked and Sam shone it on the other man, who continued to nap on the stairs.
Something large rustled in the water only a few feet away, and Sam shone the light into the wet undergrowth. Two large red spots bounced back. An alligator, maybe even more dangerous than the two reptiles from the Dodge.
Sam reached his car, drove out the driveway and found the Dodge parked on the highway about where he expected. He shot all four tires with Grimes’ gun, threw the gun into the black water next to the mangroves, and drove away to meet Candi Moran.
Chapter 5
THE DOORS of the coffee shop stood open, and the sounds of low-riders floated through the entranceway on a balmy breeze. A silent ceiling fan turned lazily overhead. Candi was the only customer in the place at this late hour, and she glanced up when Sam walked to her table. She looked different from the last time he’d seen her, her hair in a pony tail and her face tan, as if she might have spent the last week in the sun. Although in pretty bad shape a week ago, she seemed to be okay
now. She wore jeans with a low cut blouse, and glasses too large for her face. Her lips seemed fuller than Sam remembered, and he wished they were meeting for a romantic dinner, rather than to discuss someone trying to kill her.
“You sure you’re Mackenzie?” she asked and raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sure.”
“Sorry. I never got a good look at you.” She glanced toward the door and then back at Sam. “Sit down. You’re attracting attention.” She nodded toward a short old woman next to the cash register who looked as if she might have her fingers wrapped around a weapon underneath the counter.
Sam took the seat across from Candi, which gave him a view of the door she watched so carefully.
An awkward silence lay between them until a waitress arrived at the table and took their order for cafe con leche. He watched her retreat toward the counter before speaking.
“So, what is it you want me to do?” Sam said.
“I don’t know. I mean, Tommy said to go see you and you’d know what to do.”
Sam nodded and wondered about the wisdom of getting involved in this mess. He didn’t owe Tommy Shoes or this girl anything.
“Did you plug La Salle’s guy with that little gun of yours?” Sam said.
Candi Moran’s eyes widened behind the glasses. “Well...yeah. But he shot me first. I just happened to be better with a gun. I heard he died, and that's too bad. Too bad, he didn’t linger awhile, that is.”
“I still have your gun, but I didn’t bring it with me.”
She smiled for the first time. “Don’t worry, I got another one.”
A car drove by with the radio playing a song Sam didn’t recognize.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened to your dad?” Sam said as the music faded away.
“Tommy told you about him, huh?”
“A little.”
“Philly got a raw deal.”
Yeah, I bet. The sound of a jet approaching Miami International droned in the distance. Sam, feeling warm inside the jacket, removed it and laid it on the chair to his right. The gun in the jacket pocket made a clacking sound when it touched the wood bottom of the chair. The waitress returned with a tray in her hand. She narrowed her eyes when she heard the gun, as if she had heard that sound before, then set cups of coffee in front of them. Sam waited until she left before speaking again.