Miami Burn (Titus Book 1)

by John D. Patten

  We walked to the church and went inside. On the left side of the altar, a plump black girl in her mid-twenties with tight braids played an old upright piano that wasn’t there last time. Based on its condition, I suspected it was much older than me. Maybe older than Miami.

  Two black boys, a black girl, and a Latina girl, all various high-school ages, rehearsed “Oh Happy Day.” They and the piano were both horribly off-key. They stopped when we walked in.

  I followed Luther over to them, the fear on one of the boy’s faces intense as he looked at me. I hadn’t told Luther about his bike-thieving and I didn’t intend to—but DaShawn doesn’t know that.

  “Brother Titus,” said Luther, “this is Sister Candace. She’s putting together this motley crew for some Sunday hymns. We just rescued this brand spanking new piano from an elementary school in decline.”

  “Brand spanking new?” said Candace. “This piano is a piece of, uh, well let’s just say it needs some TLC. My apologies, Mr. Titus. Nice to meet you.”

  “No apologies necessary,” I said. “And it’s just Titus.”

  She gave me a lovely smile.

  “Titus,” said Luther, “this is DaShawn, Bobby, Shardene, and Rosa. Say hello to brother Titus.”

  “Hello, brother Titus,” they all said together except for DaShawn, his mouth hanging open.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “You should come to service on Sunday,” said Luther. “Candace here is going to whip this choir into shape better than the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Going to be quite a sermon, too.”

  “Maybe,” I lied. “Keys?”

  Luther frowned.

  “Candace,” he said, “you still got the keys to the truck?”

  “Oh, sure,” Candace said and fumbled in her purse. She took out a single key on a rubber keychain in the shape of the number one. Luther took it and handed it to me. It read A-1 Tire Repair with a cartoon of a coyote pushing a big tire uphill. I felt his pain.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Put some gas in if you feel so inclined,” said Luther with a big grin.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I DROVE LUTHER’S TEN-YEAR OLD NAVY BLUE FORD Ranger across the MacArthur Causeway to I-95 South, then followed that until it dissolves into U.S. Route One, locally known as Dixie Highway. I passed a profusion of strip malls and billboards, a concrete jungle similar to the same Route One back home in Boston. Is there a law that Route One must be endless strip malls and billboards from north to south?

  Following Google Maps directions, I turned left onto Riviera Drive, then past Cocoplum Circle onto Old Cutler Road. It was as if I had been transported to a South American jungle in a previous century. The ancient banyan trees were breathtaking in their panoramic splendor. Timeworn but muscular trunks, some as wide as stretch limos, fired barrages of hearty branches skyward. Overhead, the limbs tangled with their counterparts across the road, forming a canopy of succulent green that dangled overhead like a cloistered tunnel of protection from the modern world.

  All that ended when I crossed yet another magical line in time and space and entered Gables Estates, a modern playground for the most wealthy of the wealthy. I thought Hinraker’s house and its contemporaries were over-the-top, but it was more showy celebrity rich. Gables Estates was old boys’ club rich—mansions big enough to house the population of a small city, meticulously maintained rolling lawns with mile-long driveways, high stone walls with colorful vines in artful patterns, and a white mega-yacht at every dock.

  I don’t blame Allie for wanting to escape. I can see how this could be an alternate dungeon, sunny and beautiful on the outside but dark and confining for the only child of a wannabe politician who needs to live a public life with zero tolerance for mistakes. From my years as a cop, I ran into a couple of “trust fund junkies” who ended up on the street because they couldn’t make it in their parents’ hoity-toity world. The pressure was too much. The right schools must be attended, the right grades achieved, the right club memberships attained. And for what? So that they can spend the rest of their lives playing golf and tennis with other “approved” blue-bloods trying to impress each other with how wonderful they all are?

  It made me almost ill thinking about it as I pulled up to the stucco gate that barred the deplorable masses from entering Arvida Parkway.

  The gray-haired man with a crew cut inside the stucco gatehouse with the Spanish-tile roof wore a name tag that said Harold. He took one look at me and the pickup truck and his hand hovered near his gun. I’m used to it.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he said.

  “I’m here to see Pam Hayes,” I said.

  “What is your name, sir?”

  I told him. He placed a pair of reading glasses on his nose and studied a clipboard. He took his time, allowing an uncomfortable silence to build, and then flipped some pages while frowning. I got the feeling he enjoys uncomfortable silences. My gut said retired cop.

  “Do you have an appointment?” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Are you a registered visitor?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but without an appointment, or being a registered visitor, or on my guest list here, I’ll be unable to let you in.”

  “Look, Harold, I know you’re just doing your job. Pam Hayes hired me to find her daughter Allie. You probably know Allie. You probably know she’s missing. Well, I found her. I’ve been calling Mrs. Hayes all morning and getting no answer. This is good news for Mrs. Hayes. I’ve found her daughter alive and well and need to inform her because she’s paid me a lot of money.”

  He looked at me for a long moment. Something in him decided I was telling the truth and he said, “Got an ID on you?”

  I pulled out my Massachusetts Driver’s License and handed it to him.

  “One moment, please, sir,” he said.

  The window closed and he made a phone call. While he talked, I examined the five CD’s in the space under the radio. I selected Gladys Knight and the Pips, put the CD in the player, and hummed along to “Midnight Train to Georgia.”

  The window opened.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Harold said and handed me back my license, “but I can’t find any authorization for your being here. I’m going to have to ask you to turn around and leave.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  There was another long uncomfortable pause. I could ram the gate, but that would only bring the cops. Plus, I don’t know what other security awaits across the little bridge that leads down to the parkway where I know the Hayes house is.

  “Can I leave a message for Mrs. Hayes?” I said.

  “I cannot confirm nor deny that a Mrs. Hayes lives in Gables Estates, sir.”

  I laughed. “Harold, you used to be a cop, right? You retired early and now you do this probably part-time, right?”

  He smiled, but didn’t say anything. I was right.

  “Do you know Detective Sergeant Sofia DeJesus-Montero of the Miami Organized Crime Section?” I said.

  “No, sir,” he said.

  “Do you know the Reverend Luther Williams of the Apostolic Rescue Mission Church of Miami Beach?”

  “No, sir. Now, I’m going to have to ask you to—”

  “Do you know Paulie DiNucci?”

  His eyes lit up and he almost smiled. “You know Paulie?”

  “I work for Paulie at Cap’n Jack’s Seafood & Bar. At the bar. From one former cop to another, would you do me a favor and call Paulie and ask him if you can trust me?”

  Harold stared at me some more, but didn’t move to the phone. He leaned back and folded his arms.

  “This missing girl,” he said, “she talk back to you?”

  I smiled. “Every other word was fuck,” I said. “She told me in no uncertain terms what I could do with myself.”

  He chuckled. “She act like she’s queen of the goddamned world and we’re all tools to her?”

  “Yea
h.”

  “You think she’s trouble?”

  “Yeah.”

  He laughed. “Well, sir, like I said, I can’t help you. I’ll need to ask you to turn around and leave. But in the meantime, may I suggest a game of tennis? Do you play tennis, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s a shame, because if I were to recommend a place to play tennis, it would be the Leucadendra Country Club. It’s on Leucadendra Drive about a mile back. Oh, but you don’t play tennis, so why am I telling you? Just being friendly and thought I’d make a recommendation. Now, you have a great day, sir.”

  I put the truck in gear and grinned at him. “Thank you, Harold.”

  “Say hello to Paulie from Harry Lyle.”

  “Will do.”

  I turned the truck around and pulled back out onto Old Cutler Road.

  Paulie scores again.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I PULLED LUTHER’S TRUCK INTO THE LEUCADENDRA Country Club. The large circular driveway was paved with Italian flagstone. There were several expensive cars, each with a driver waiting for various lords and ladies to finish an afternoon of the sport of kings. A couple of drivers stood and chatted while smoking. Other cars had the engines running, I assumed with their drivers cooling themselves in the air conditioning.

  I saw a gray Mercedes parked on the other side of the circle. I made a bet with myself that Chester would be behind the wheel and he’d be wearing a gray suit.

  I pulled up alongside. Chester rolled down the window and sneered at me. His lapels were gray. I win.

  “What are you doing here?” he said with just the right amount of indignant outrage.

  “Looking for Mrs. Hayes,” I said.

  “I thought Mr. Hayes told you your assignment was complete.”

  “Wow, they keep you in the loop. Good for you, Chet. Thing is, Mr. Hayes didn’t hire me. And I found Allie. Well, sort of. I know where she can be found at least one night of the week and I need to get this information to Mrs. Hayes.”

  “You can give it to me. I’ll pass it along.”

  I laughed. “See, Chet, you’re not Mrs. Hayes either, so that’s not going to work. Why the sudden cold shoulder? Doesn’t she want me to do the very thing she so gratuitously paid me to do? By the way, are you impressed? I bet you didn’t think I could use the word gratuitously in a sentence, did you? It was a lot of money, Chet, a whole lot. You should know. You handed it to me. You must be bringing home the bacon yourself with a boss who can make it rain like that, huh? But seriously, how would you feel if you were just shut out for no reason? No explanation. Just like that, boom, done. I mean, picture it. Mrs. Hayes tells you to drive to—I don’t know, Bal Harbour shopping mall—that’s a place she might want to go, right? Halfway there, Mr. Hayes calls and says ‘Chester, I want you to pull over, get out of the car, and walk away from it,’ leaving Mrs. Hayes right in the middle of the highway. No explanation, no nothing. Just hasta la vista, Chester, don’t call us, we’ll call you. Wouldn’t you be mad? I mean, just a little? Wouldn’t you want to know why you were dumped mid-stream like that? Wouldn’t you feel at least a tiny obligation to get Mrs. Hayes to the destination you were paid to take her to?”

  “You are an annoying man,” he said. “I’m calling the police.” The window rolled up.

  That did it. The crazy was on. I’m getting really sick of these people.

  I drove up two car lengths, pulled into an empty spot past a silver Audi A5, and got out. Sitting on a white Victorian wrought-iron bench in the shade of a white rose trellis was a short taut man with a scraggly tousle of salt-and-pepper hair over a wrinkly face. In fact, everything about him was wrinkly—a loose wrinkly white shirt, loose wrinkly tan pants that rode up his ankles, and white loafers with no socks. He smoked a cigarette motionlessly, watching me with a faint chiseled smile like a carved statue. I assumed he was one of the drivers, but whoever employs him needs to give him a raise so he can get his clothes pressed.

  I walked past him and around the circle to the main entrance next to gold letters on expensive stone that read Leucadendra Country Club. The two blond security boys with stylish haircuts in blue polo shirts and white shorts looked like they weren’t quite sure how to handle me as I stormed toward them. It’s understandable. Probably the toughest task they perform is to give rides home to members who’ve had too much to drink.

  “Hey!” said one as I breezed past them. “You can’t go in there!”

  The other one followed me behind and to my right just as I saw Pam Hayes on an outside terrace, sitting at a patio table with several other posh middle-aged ladies. Lucky break. I wouldn’t have to run around trying to find her. Tennis rackets lay propped by the chairs. The ladies sipped champagne from tall flutes.

  The boy tried stepping in front of me. I’m big, but he was bigger, like a linebacker. He’s also probably seventeen. I faked like I was going to punch him in his big round sweaty face, but instead I grabbed his left hand and twisted his little finger.

  “Ow!” he said as I turned his arm away from the socket that holds it in place and held it like a briefcase as I walked him ahead of me onto the patio.

  “Ow, you’re hurting me!” he said.

  “No I’m not,” I said as we approached the table. “Trust me, if I was hurting you, you’d know.”

  “I’m calling the cops!” the other boy yelled from way behind us.

  I never thought a mouth could open so wide as Pam Hayes’ when she saw me.

  “Mrs. Hayes,” I said. “Sorry about the fuss, but I need to talk to you.”

  The other ladies were frozen with astonishment. Things like this just don’t happen at the Leucadendra Country Club. One of them didn’t seem to mind, even forsaking her high position in life to smile at me.

  I’ll hand it to Pam Hayes. She composed herself quickly, stood up, and said, “I’ll take care of this, girls. Titus and I are old friends. I’ll be running along now.”

  Like it’s a perfectly ordinary thing to do on a perfectly ordinary day. Longish-haired thugs with goatees are just another item on one’s to-do list, ladies.

  “Titus,” she said with a warm smile, “let that boy go please.”

  I let him go with another “Ow!” even though I didn’t do a thing.

  “It’s all right, Lucas,” she said to him, patting him on the other arm. “Girls, really, everything is fine. This is a friend of mine. I’m going to leave for now. I’ll see you next Thursday.”

  She took me by the arm like I was her date, her purse and tennis racket on her other arm.

  The police had arrived. That was quick. They must have been fighting crime close by. They were talking with a tall white-haired man in a tuxedo who looked like the maître d’.

  “Terrence,” she said to him, “this is my friend Titus. Everything is fine. Just a misunderstanding.” She turned to the two fresh-faced cops. “I’m sorry, officers. I’ve been neglecting my friend and he came to see me here. He gets a little agitated sometimes, but I assure you that everything is fine.”

  She and I walked arm in arm out to the car, her nose way up in the clouds like the Queen of England with her Royal escort. Chester emerged from the Mercedes and stood, awaiting orders.

  The man in the wrinkly clothes still occupied his place on the bench. He watched us without expression.

  “Mr. Titus,” she said in a cool voice, “I told you that everything is resolved and to stop looking for Allie. We found her and she’s fine. All is well.”

  “No, Mrs. Hayes,” I said, “you actually didn’t tell me that everything is resolved and to stop looking for Allie. I needed to hear it from you.”

  “Well, now you’re hearing it from me. Please, Titus, I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “That sounds like a threat.”

  She looked around, frustrated, thinking of what to do next. She waved to Chester, who opened the rear door.

  “Get in the car, Titus,” she said. I stared at her. “Please.” Big smiles, a
lways gets her way. I got in the back with her. “Chester, give us a moment, please.”

  He nodded and sneered at me, turned, and shut the door.

  “Titus,” she said in a voice as icy as the car’s air conditioning, “I will not have you rattling around frightening my friends and causing scenes that could ruin my husband’s chances of being elected.”

  “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” I said. “That’s the most important thing to you really, isn’t it? Keeping it all out of the papers. You really don’t give a rat’s ass about Allie or where she is. She’s just a prop to you and your husband’s quest for power. All that bullshit you dropped on me, it was all a sham. Rehearsed.”

  Her face swelled. I thought for a moment her head might explode, but she closed her eyes and brought it under control. When she spoke again, it was calm and warm with a gentle smile.

  “Titus, now you know that’s not true,” she said. “I loved Allie. I wanted to help her.” Tears started again. “But there was nothing I could do. She was out of control.”

  “Loved? Past tense. You don’t love Allie anymore?”

  “Oh, of course I do. That didn’t come out right. I still love her. I still think of her every day. It’s just, I want this situation to right itself, and now I know where she is and everything can get better.”

  I decided to take a stab, rock the boat maybe.

  “So you can get her to come home?” I said. “So she can be abused by her father again?”

  The fake tears stopped and the swelling returned.

  “Is that what you think, Titus?” she said in the politician’s wife’s voice, all tears forgotten.

  “What should I think?” I said. “Nineteen-year old girl ditches her rich life and education to be a dominatrix in a show where she whips and flogs people and has sex on stage.”

  “Titus, I won’t hear any more of this!”

  “Oh, you didn’t know? I thought you knew what Allie has been up to.”

  “I know—what she likes,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s disgusting. It’s revolting.”

  “Yes, but typically in my experience as a police officer and from everything I know, some people—not all, but some—who get off on that shit have been abused as children.”