by Randy Rawls
At eleven-thirty, he parked in front of the Chevron food shop. “Okay, you have two minutes, fifteen seconds. In and out. Grab the cash. That’s all we care about. Make sure the clerk drops and stays out until morning—or forever, doesn’t matter. Geda, you handle Johnny’s duties as well as your own. You’ll move up to number three. No names, just numbers. Okay, on my count. One, two…”
The plan worked to precision and the gang took five seconds off their target time. They were driving out of the parking lot two minutes and ten seconds after they hit the front door. The clerk didn’t watch. He was unconscious, trussed with duct tape, and shoved under the front counter.
THIRTEEN
At seven-thirty in the morning, Tom was back at work, this time taking notes as he listened to the sanitized version of Johnny’s confession. There were five members of THORNS ON ROSES. The leader was Raul Santiago, who called himself El General. According to Johnny, he had a shaved head, but let his curly black beard grow into a bush. His complexion was black with a rich glow. His grandparents emigrated from Batista’s Cuba in the mid-fifties, before Castro’s takeover, bringing his mother and father as small children with them. His grandfather’s hatred of Batista caused him to turn a blind eye on Castro, even praising him for taking power.
According to Johnny, El General worshipped Fidel Castro and the regime he created. His goal was to serve his hero. And it was to that end, he’d created Thorns on Roses.
Raul worked for the city of Coral Lakes as a sanitation engineer. Tom wrote down garbage collector. The other three members held menial jobs also. One was a sorter in the municipal recycling operation, one worked at a lumber yard, and the other at an automobile salvage yard. The recycler was Laurelle Garcia, the lumberyard employee was Gedadiah Luana, and Isidro Walker took parts off cars. Tom chuckled at the nicknames Laury, Geda, and Izzy. Sounded like really tough characters. The little Johnny knew of their backgrounds wasn’t impressive—high school dropouts with arrest records going back to their early teens.
Johnny said Thorns on Roses was just getting started. El General foresaw the gang going national, competing with the Crips, even absorbing them and the Bloods. When they were ready, they’d stage a revolution, turning the U.S. into a Castro-style communist utopia. El General would meet with Castro as an equal and return those who worked against him to Cuba. Perhaps, El General would cede Florida and the Keys to Cuba, depending on how he felt at the time. Each original member of the gang would receive a section of the United States to govern—under El General’s gentle tutelage, of course.
Tom chuckled as he listened to the last. “Too bad, Señor General. You’ll be with the sharks. Your host might beach himself on the shores of Cuba, and barf you onto the sand. That’s as close as you’ll get to your goal.”
As the confession ground forward, he flinched, knowing the next part was the worst—the part that justified his actions.
Johnny, in his whiny voice, told about Mary Lou’s last night. She was a new recruit to the Thorns on Roses. He’d shown her the gang’s manifesto—only to impress her, he said—and she insisted on joining. El General set the initiation. All she had to do was take on the five of them. Johnny argued with him, but he wouldn’t change his mind. If she wanted to be a member, she had to prove her love for every soldier. Every man shared the fruits of the gang. There was no personal ownership. That was El General’s decree. Since Johnny recruited her, he could have first honors, but he refused, saying he couldn’t do it to her. El General had no such qualms and claimed first dibs. Laury, Geda, and Izzy played Rock, Paper, Scissors for position with Laury winning second, then Izzy and Geda.
She took the first two, but began to cry while Izzy humped her. She refused to let Geda mount her, rolling from side to side, thrashing her knees back and forth. Johnny tried to help her, but El General shoved him aside and told Izzy and Laury to hold her down. When one of her flailing kicks hit El General in the groin, he went wild and grabbed her by the throat, yelling that she’d better not move. As Geda moaned in ecstasy, she died. There was nothing Johnny could have done to save her.
Izzy knew the perfect place to dump the body. He’d taken a call at the salvage yard about an old car used by the homeless. A neighbor wanted it hauled away. If they stuck her in the trunk and someone discovered it, the cops would suspect one of the bums. El General declared it foolproof. Geda went through Mary Lou’s purse and found Tom’s business cards. They laughed as they shoved one between her stiffening fingers.
Tom wiped his eyes, then walked to the table where he’d placed the envelopes with the CDs. Pulling Charlie’s out of the stack, he ran it through the shredder. No father should hear such a story, even one filled with obvious lies and omissions. He remembered Bert Bernstein’s daughter, reflected for a moment, then returned to the collection, and removed Bert’s. It followed Charlie’s copy.
He sat, letting the recording play through his mind. Johnny lied, no doubt about it, thought he could save his life by blaming Mary Lou and the others in the gang. The young girl Tom knew would have no truck with the likes of such scum. As for Johnny trying to save her, that was crap, making Tom wish he’d saved the bullet before feeding Big Al.
The phone rang.
He went into the kitchen and checked the caller ID. Abby. How can one woman be so damned desirable and such a pain in the ass?
* * * *
Detective Summers walked into Lieutenant Richards’ office. “Johnny Grayson seems to have skipped. He hasn’t been to work for three days.”
“The guy at Publix? Smithson’s boyfriend?”
“Yeah.” Summers sat and flipped open his notebook. “Far as I can tell, he was last seen slipping out of work before midnight last Monday. He met with someone in the back parking lot. His supervisor,” he checked his notes, “a John Hatcham, said he saw Grayson talking to somebody when he was supposed to be working. When he called to Grayson, they ignored him. He also said it didn’t surprise him. He’s convinced Grayson was into drugs, gangs, and about any other anti-social behavior you can name.” He chuckled. “Graham’s opinion of his employee is somewhat below sea level, but he verifies he has the same tattoo as the Smithson girl.”
“Did you check Grayson’s neighborhood?”
“Yep. No one admits seeing him. Of course, close to the same number never heard the name before. The one lady who talked to me previously was very gracious. She said, and I quote, ‘Good riddance to bad trash. I hope the sonavabitch is dead.’”
“Interesting. And you think he ran because of what happened to the girl? Works for me. Let’s get out a BOLO and pick the bastard up.”
“In progress.” Summers smiled. When Richards rolled his eyes, he added, “Hey, you and I always think alike, right?”
“Be nice if you let your boss think he’s doing the planning sometimes.” He stood. “Anything else? I only have a few minutes.”
“Couple of things. One, the service desk at Publix got a call the night before Grayson disappeared from someone identifying himself as Grayson’s cousin. He said he was in the area and wanted to stop by and see Johnny. The girl at the desk remembered the incident because the cousin wanted Johnny’s address and phone number. Said he’d left home without them. She didn’t give them to him.”
“Cousin that doesn’t know where he lives? Possible,” Richards said. “Or unlikely. Take your pick. You said couple. What’s the other?”
“The morning after the call from the cousin, an insurance adjuster showed up looking for Johnny. Here’s his card.” He pushed an evidence bag across the desk.
Richards stared at it. “A business card? Homer Livendorf, Georgia Peach Insurance Company.”
Summers smiled. “He said he was from the Orlando office.”
Richards stared. “That damn grin of yours. Let me unravel it. No such business?”
“Bingo.”
“A cousin and a phony insurance adjuster, both looking for Grayson just before he disappears.” Richards rubbed his forehead as h
e stood. “You’re onto something here, but what?” He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting with the captain. Anything else you can make quick?”
“Received some stuff from Dallas on that PI, Jeffries. But we can talk about him later.”
Richards dropped into his chair. “Damn you and your games. You knew I’d want what you found. Talk. But give me the nickel version. The dollar version can wait.”
Summers’ smile grew bigger. “Boss, I wouldn’t play games with you.”
“Talk.”
“Okay. Quick and dirty. He was obsessed with a group that killed his sister. The justice system did not do her well.” Summers rose and turned toward the door. “Don’t be late for your meeting.”
“Hold it, you bastard,” Richards said through a grimace. “I’ll be back as fast as I can. Get things moving on Grayson and hold Jeffries for later. Sounds too good for a Reader’s Digest slice. But, when the captain whistles, lowly detectives must scramble.” He came around the desk. “About an hour.” He walked through the doorway then stuck his head back in. “And the story better live up to the tease.”
Summers grinned as he followed him out.
FOURTEEN
Abby listened to the phone ring, wondering which would answer, Tom or his machine. He couldn’t be gone this early—or could he? He slipped out on her before. During the fourth ring, she heard, “Hello.”
“Must have gotten you out of the shower,” she said. “Took you long enough to answer.”
“Uh, what can I do for you?”
“Wrong. It’s what I can do for you. I’m repaying your omelet with a gourmet breakfast. All I need is a microwave to warm things, and we’ll feast on special Archer waffles. People drive from miles around to sample my cooking.”
He sighed into her ear. “This isn’t a good time, Abby. Can I have a rain check?”
“Nope. You had a rain check last night. I’ve been up since six-thirty fixing breakfast. Would you prefer I tell Lonnie you’re rejecting me? Would you call my mother a liar?”
“Your mother? What’s she got to do with this?”
“She said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. If you turn down my world-famous waffles, it would be like screaming she was wrong.” Her words carried a smile, or she hoped they did.
Another sigh. “Okay, come on, but give me forty-five minutes.”
“You’ve got ten. I’m almost there.” She chuckled as she punched the off button. “Mr. Jeffries, there’s more than one way to bring a man to heel. You will cooperate. The Archer charm never fails.”
A few minutes later, Abby parked in Tom’s driveway, removed her insulated carrier, and walked toward the house. En route, she picked up his newspaper from the sidewalk. She grinned when she saw the note pinned to the door. In shower. Door’s unlocked. Coffee’s hot. Come in.
She tested the knob and, finding the note accurate, entered and walked through the living room. Passing a table in the hallway, she spotted her name on an envelope beside another addressed to a Detective Jim Richards. She stopped and listened. Water rumbled through the lines, indicating, she hoped, that Tom was still in the shower. Should she? She picked up her envelope and felt it, then did the same with the other. CDs? The water noise stopped, and Abby rushed into the kitchen.
She poured herself a cup of coffee, then removed waffles, syrup, and bacon from the carrier and placed them on the counter. After putting the syrup in the microwave to warm, she set the table with three Belgium waffles on Tom’s plate and one on hers. She gave him six slices of bacon and two for her, then settled into a chair with the newspaper.
Tom walked in smelling of soap and aftershave, his hair glistening with wetness. He wore a polo shirt, tight jeans, and western boots. “Good morning, Archer. You must have stopped at a diner on the way over. Great idea.”
“Up yours, Jeffries. I told you I cooked everything.” She turned, afraid her look might give her away. Damn, he’s handsome. And I’m getting urges like some horny high school kid. Stupid, Abby. Stupid. But, it has been a long time.
While Tom poured a cup of coffee, she folded the paper and placed it beside his plate.
He moved to the table. “Nice. I could get used to this. What’s the after-breakfast treat?” His leer left no doubt about what he inferred.
“Not even in your dreams,” she said, punctuating it with a grin. “There’s a limit to the household duties I perform.”
“Damn shame. Well, let’s see if you can cook.” He poured syrup over the waffles, cut into them, and chewed his first bite. “Excellent,” he said, then swallowed. “Now I understand why a man might find you worth pursuing.”
“Screw you, Jeffries.” She hesitated as Tom grinned. “Don’t even say it.” She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed to be enjoying the waffles, which brought an uninvited smile to her face.
They ate quietly with only the clicking of silverware disturbing the silence. When his plate held only syrup-sodden crumbs, Tom pushed back from the table. “Thanks. Guess I was hungrier than I realized. I may have forgotten to eat last night.”
“Is that when you made the CDs? And who is Detective Jim Richards?”
“What?” Tom said, glancing toward the hall.
“Yeah. I mean the ones on the table. They weren’t there yesterday, so you must have put them together last night. What’s on them?”
Tom rubbed his chin. “I don’t suppose you’d forget you saw them.”
“Not a chance. But in the interest of fairness, I’ll get you a refill while you tell me.” She stood, picked up both cups, and walked to the coffeepot.
When she set the coffee in front of him, he appeared deep in thought. “Tom, look at me. There’s obviously something you want me to know or you wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of burning a CD. It must have legal ramifications or you wouldn’t have a copy for the police. If I’m right, and we both know I am, talk to me.”
Tom frowned. “Not yet. You’ll just have to wait.”
“This is stupid,” she said, feeling her anger build. Why was he being such an asshole? He had something he wanted to share, but not now. She wondered if he was worth helping—or more accurately, worth pursuing the feelings growing inside her.
“Whoa.” He laid his hand over hers. “Don’t be getting your thong all in a twist. There’s a time and a place for everything. While this may someday be the place, it’s not the time.” He appeared to reflect for a moment. “Suppose, in the interest of friendship, I tell you a story. How ’bout that?”
“Fiction, I can get on TV. I prefer truth. Is your story true?”
“So true the pain never goes away.”
“Oh.” She looked at him, seeing the angst in his eyes. “In that case, tell it.”
Tom sat for a moment, then ran his fingers through his hair, his face a mask of sadness. “You remember I mentioned my sister yesterday?”
“Yes. You bit my head off when I said I didn’t know you had one.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. I’d like to tell you about her. She was—”
“Can you hold it for a moment. I’m about to float. Don’t get up. I remember the way to the bathroom.”
She stood and left the kitchen. As she passed the hallway table, she trailed her fingers over the envelopes, feeling Tom’s eyes on her.
* * * *
Tom watched as she turned into the bathroom, then followed as far as the hall table. He picked up the envelopes, took them into the living room, stopped, and scanned the area. Where could he hide them? He needed a place out of sight, but one where they’d be easy to find if he didn’t finish his job—if he didn’t eliminate the other four of Mary Lou’s killers. It was imperative the police get the particulars he’d learned from Johnny—if he failed. And it needed to happen fast. He had no doubt the survivors, like the rats they were, would scurry into their holes, disappearing into the criminal underground that was all too prevalent in South Florida.
He placed the small packages on the bo
ttom shelf of his coffee table, then covered them with a magazine. Stepping back, he assured himself they weren’t obvious to a casual glance around the room. “Good enough,” he mumbled. “They should be found early in a search.”
He returned to the kitchen and picked up his cup. Hearing Abby’s footsteps, he leaned against the counter in a casual manner and sipped his coffee.
“I see you moved them,” she said, smiling. “Are we turning this into a treasure hunt?”
He pushed off the counter. “Forget it. When the time comes—if it comes—you’ll get your copy.”
“Guess I hit another of your impenetrable walls. What about my story?”
“I changed my mind. Don’t suppose you’d let me skip it.”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t figure you would. And my bet is you’re one of those women who never forget anything. Probably remember the first word you ever said.”
“Why.”
“Because I think you never forget anything. That’s why.”
“No. I didn’t mean why, like why? My mother told me to quit playing and eat my oatmeal, and I asked why—my first word.”
“Very funny.”
“What about my story? You said it’s about your sister.”
Tom wiped his hand over his face. “Freshen your coffee, then sit down. This may take a while.” He moved to the table and sat. “Promise not to interrupt?”