O’Brien opened his eyes. He was on the small bed in the chickee, moonlight glowing through the thin white curtain. The hard mattress was damp from his sweat. The back of his T-shirt soaked. But there was something on the front of the shirt as well. Something moving. Something dark. It stopped at the lower section of his chest, prickly burrs poking through his shirt. He slowly reached for his flashlight, pointing the light toward the object. A large palmetto bug stared up at O’Brien. The massive cockroach twitched both of its long antennas like whips. As it took another step, O’Brien saw a light beyond the thin curtain. Maybe lightning. Maybe something else coming.
FORTY-SEVEN
O’Brien stared at the curtain for a few seconds. Nothing. He cut his eyes back to the roach on his chest. He estimated that the bug was almost as long as his thumb. He knew that palmetto bugs could spray a foul-smelling glandular liquid when attacked. He laid there, the air in the room warm, listening to the sound of wind through banana leaves outside. The insect took a step, antennae stroking his shirt. It slowly walked up O’Brien’s chest.
He waited for just the right second. When the brown bug was a few inches away from his neck, he pursed his lips, blowing a blast of air. The roach lifted its wings and flew. It made a complete circle in the room, the sound of the wings loud—the noise was what O’Brien had heard in his erratic sleep.
The bug landed on the inside of the palmetto roof, weaving its way deep into the fronds. O’Brien shut off his flashlight. He tried not to think of his dreams—nightmares, and watched the silhouettes of banana plants swaying in the breeze, their shadows falling across the white curtain. There was another movement over the curtain. This one wasn’t a shadow, but rather a light. Unlike the millisecond illumination from lightning, this light had the brief sweep of a car’s headlight in the distance. O’Brien knew the light came in the direction of the parking lot. It was at least one hundred yards away.
He looked at his watch: 3:47 a.m.
Someone was leaving or arriving. He knew the campground office had closed at 11:00 p.m. Most of the cars and minivans in the lot had out of state license plates. O’Brien stood. He slipped on his jeans and stepped to the curtain. He slightly moved the curtain allowing him to look out the window. Under the moonlight, he could see almost all the way to the parking lot.
And he spotted a man coming from the lot.
O’Brien picked up his Glock and flashlight, quietly opening the door leading to the screened porch. He stepped out on the porch, the drone of bullfrogs coming from the glades. He slid the hook lock off the screened door and walked down three wooden steps to the ground. He knew that the trespasser was approaching at a soft pace, trying not to be heard. The man was at least fifty yards away.
O’Brien cut to his right, going away from the footpath that led to the front of each chickee. He walked quickly in the dew-soaked grass, moving past two chickees, loud snoring coming from one. He waited in the dark shadows. He watched the stalker walk by carrying a handgun, making an effort to step softly.
When the man passed, O’Brien moved between the two chickees, coming up to the path. He was now behind the man who continued his slow approach. The man stopped at O’Brien’s chickee, pausing there for a moment, probably listening for any movement or possible sounds of slumber.
After a few seconds, the man reached for the door handle. When it didn’t turn, he pushed his pistol under his belt and began picking the lock. A bull gator bellowed from the glades, mosquitoes whined. O’Brien used the cover of the sound to walk up behind the man as he was turning the doorknob. The man opened the door, reaching for his pistol.
O’Brien pointed the flashlight at him and hit the on button. “There’s a nine mil round about to enter the back of your head. Raise both hands slowly and turn around.”
The man did as ordered. He squinted in the powerful light. “So we meet again. I was wondering if it’d be you Carlos, or your pal, Tony. Looks like you got the bad luck of the draw.”
Carlos Bertoni said, “I didn’t come here to whack you.”
“Is that why you’re carrying a Sig with a silencer?”
“It’s for protection only.”
“Are you by yourself?”
Bertoni paused. “Sure. No need to send a posse. You mind lowering that fuckin’ light? You’re making me blind as a bat.”
O’Brien shut off the light, and Bertoni reached for his pistol. O’Brien took one quick step, slamming the flashlight across Bertoni’s nose. He fell to his knees, eyes glazed, blood spurting down his shirt. O’Brien brought the butt of the flashlight into the man’s jaw. He pushed the barrel of his Glock against Bertoni’s forehead, pulling the Sig Sauer from the man’s belt. “Don’t move! Who killed Lawrence Barton?”
“I don’t know! Swear to God. I never heard of this Barton dude.”
“Who ordered it?”
“I got no fuckin’ idea what you’re talkin’ about. Okay? You broke my nose.”
“Who sent you here tonight?”
Bertoni sucked in a chest full of air. “Nobody. Tony and me got to talkin’ after we left Charlie Tiger’s place, and we figured we’d convince you to back off. They don’t need somebody stirrin’ shit up.”
“Who are they?”
“Who the hell knows? I’m just a soldier tryin’ it to make retirement.”
“Besides your connection to Charlie Tiger, whom else in the tribe are you working with?”
“Nobody. The Seminoles got no reason to spread the wealth.”
“Who’s the boss? The mob boss, who is he?”
“I don’t have a clue what the fuck you’re talkin’ about. I need a doctor.”
O’Brien stared at him. “Let’s bypass the doctor and go straight to the undertaker. You tell me who’s framing Joe Billie and you walk out of here. You don’t and you’ll walk into the glades. Guess how far you’ll get?”
“If I say shit to anybody, I’m dead.”
“You’re about to be dead.”
“C’mon, I don’t know—”
“It is called Florida’s stand your ground law. You broke into my place. Carrying a gun. I have a legal right, maybe even an obligation, to put a round through your thick skull. Stand up!”
“Dude, you’re makin’ a big mistake.”
“Walk to the edge of the water.”
“What? Why?”
“Here the roaring out in the glades? That’s a gang of bull gators. Big guys. Some are over twelve feet long. All this mating makes ‘em real hungry. I’m going to use your Sig with the silencer. Put two in your knees and push you out into the glades. They’ll hump you as they eat you. In a day or two you’ll be alligator shit.” O’Brien shoved him. “Walk!”
Bertoni held his broken nose, stumbling. “Please, man. You gotta fuckin’ believe me. We’re grunts in the chain of command.”
“Soldiers don’t decide to whack somebody.” He shoved Bertoni to the edge of the dark water, mosquitoes buzzing, smelling the dripping blood. O’Brien pointed the Sig at the man’s right kneecap and cocked the hammer.
Bertoni said, “You’re fuckin’ crazy!”
“When you frame my friend, Joe Billie, it makes me a little crazy.” O’Brien aimed, his index finger wrapping around the trigger.
“Okay! Look, we don’t know shit. If anybody did, and it’s a big fuckin’ if, the capo is a guy named Dino Scarpa. Some of the guys call him the Barber ‘cause he used a straight razor on a guy he had beef with. But he don’t get his hands dirty no more. If you were a cop, I’d never tell you that. You couldn’t find Scarpa if you wanted to.”
“I found him years ago. I can find him again. What makes you think I’m not undercover?”
Bertoni’s eyes widened. “You don’t have the look.”
“Let’s take a walk.”
“Where?”
“To visit Tony in the car.”
“How’d you know he was there?”
“You just told me.”
FORTY-EIGHT
To
ny Rizzo sat in the driver’s side of the Mercedes, listening to Frank Sinatra on satellite radio softly singing The Way You Look Tonight. Rizzo’s window was down about three inches, just enough to allow the marijuana smoke to drift outside while keeping the mosquitoes at bay.
He glanced in the direction he’d last seen Carlos heading toward and mumbled, “C’mon, Big C. We got things to do. Places to go.” He took another long hit from the joint, held the smoke deep inside his lungs and slowly exhaled toward the open window. He eased his head back against the headrest, smiled, the THC in his bloodstream. He sang along to Sinatra on the radio: Someday when I’m awfully low … when the world is cold … I will feel the glow just thinking of you … and the way you look tonight.
Rizzo took another drag and then turned toward the window to release it.
Carlos Bertoni’s bloody face smashed into the window like a giant bug.
“Shit!” yelled Rizzo. “What the fuck—”
O’Brien stuck the barrel of the Sig through the open window. “Let me see your hands.” Rizzo raised his hands, burning marijuana ash falling on his Armani shirt. O’Brien held Bertoni’s face against the glass. “Your pal, Carlos, has had better nights. He’s going to need a doctor, maybe a dentist, too.”
“What’d you do? He was just gonna talk with you.”
“At 3:40 in the morning carrying a Sig with a suppressor. Maybe Dino Scarpa thinks silence is golden.” O’Brien smiled. “Sometimes, I do too. I could shoot both of you. Make it look like an internal fight that got carried away. One guy found dead in the car. The other found dead in the parking lot after he was mortally wounded and crawled off like and animal to die.”
Rizzo licked his dry lips. “You mind if I put my hands on the top of the wheel?”
“Sure, but remember, I don’t need much of an excuse.”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“To find out why Joe Billie’s being set up to take a hard fall for Barton’s murder.”
Rizzo grinned. “We got no beef with that Joe Billie fucker … okay? It’s not in our wheelhouse.”
“Not okay. But it’s in the family’s wheelhouse. You tell me what I want to know, I leave you two alone. What does your boss or what does Charlie Tiger think Billie knows that would justify killing and scalping a man Billie knew?”
“I know guys who’ve done some nasty shit, but nobody I know has ever scalped anybody. That looks Indian to me.”
“That’s what somebody wants it to look like.”
“This cig is burning me! You mind if I toss it out the window?”
“Yes, I do mind. I’d imagine scalping a man could be quite easy for someone who really knows how to use a straight razor.”
Rizzo turned his head toward the window. His eyes deadpan. He looked at Bertoni’s face held against the glass, blood and saliva smeared, lips and nose flattened. Rizzo stared into Bertoni’s eyes with contempt.
O’Brien watched the subtle signal. “Get out.”
“What?”
“Keep your hands up and get out of the car.” O’Brien let Bertoni slump to the ground. Rizzo slowly got out of the car. O’Brien frisked him, lifting a Beretta from a holster under his Armani jacket. “Put your pal in the car and drive away.”
Rizzo worked to get Bertoni in the car. When he came back to the driver’s side he said, “You’re a fuckin’ dead man.”
“Tell Dino I want to chat with him. I think we have a mutual friend in Bobby Hawkins. I’ll be in touch.”
O’Brien watched them drive away. He looked to the eastern sky. A slight roseate glow of a new day was coming up over the horizon. It was in the eastern part of the Everglades, under a morning sun, where they might find the body of Frank Sparrow.
FORTY-NINE
Before the break of dawn, O’Brien hid the guns he’d taken from Bertoni and Rizzzo. He stowed the pistols under the front seats of his Jeep. He assumed rounds fired from one or both guns had killed men, maybe even women. O’Brien showered in the campground showers, checked out of his chickee, and waited in the café for Wynona to arrive.
He sipped black coffee, thinking about what both men told him as they were held at gunpoint. Bertoni: ‘I don’t know! Swear to God. We never heard of this Barton dude.’ Rizzo: ‘We got no beef with that Joe Billie fucker … okay? It’s not in our wheelhouse.’
Were they telling the truth? Was either man capable of telling the truth? O’Brien knew both men were sociopaths, hardwired for self-gratification, unable to extend empathy. The expression of love was mostly an act to manipulate a susceptible victim, usually a wife or mistress. Often both.
Wynona Osceola entered the café, her hair slightly damp from a shower. She spotted O’Brien, smiled and joined him at the table. He thought she looked radiant. Skin fresh scrubbed and glowing. She wore very little makeup. She was dressed in black jeans and a white blouse. “Good morning, Sean. I hope you rested well sleeping on the edge of the Everglades in a Seminole chickee. The coffee smells so good.”
A Seminole woman in her fifties approached with a pot of coffee. “Hi, Wynona, you’re in here early. Want some breakfast?”
“A muffin and coffee would be great, Lanie. Thanks.”
After the server poured coffee and left, O’Brien said, “The night started out fine. Nice view of the glades and the entire nocturnal paring off of the species.” He smiled. “From there, one of my vivid dreams was interrupted by a lonesome palmetto bug flying around the room, alighting on my chest.”
“And this was in the middle of the night?”
“More like 3:47 in the morning. Once the bug flew back to its roost in the ceiling, I saw a car headlight sweep across the curtains in the room. I assumed no one was checking into a campground at that hour. Too early for deliveries, unless the deliveryman is carrying a gun.”
Wynona leaned forward. “Gun? What the hell happened to you from the time we had dinner last night until now?”
“A couple of things. I had an uninvited guest pick the lock to my door. But before he arrived, I’d managed to slip out through the side door leading to the porch, run up on the opposite side past two chickees and double back to surprise him.”
“What happened, Sean?”
He told her what had occurred. She listened without interruption, sipping coffee. When he finished, she said, “Do you think Bertoni was sent to kill you? Or was he sent to scare you from continuing the investigation on Joe Billie’s behalf?”
“Most often, if a button man’s coming at you with a silencer on his gun, he’s intent on a hit. He can always brandish a weapon without a silencer, maybe even use it to pistol-whip the person he’s trying to intimidate. Another thing, when that happens, they usually come in pairs just in case the person they’re trying to intimidate overpowers one thug. Rizzo stayed in the car smoking pot and listening to the Sinatra channel on satellite radio. Or maybe he thought Carlos Bertoni didn’t need backup.”
“Maybe Bertoni was telling the truth when he said the name, Dino Scarpa.”
“I believe he was.”
“Why?”
“Because of the look Rizzo gave him when I said that scalping a man could be easy for someone who knows how to use a straight razor.”
“What does that mean?”
“Bertoni, under a little bit of duress, said Dino Scarpa is known by members of the family as the Barber because he used a straight razor on a guy one time. Probably slit his throat. Scarpa may have done it more than once.”
Wynona said nothing, holding her cup of coffee with both hands. “If you broke his nose, maybe dislocated his jaw, he’s in need of medical treatment. I doubt they’d go to a clinic on the rez. The nearest hospital is in Hendry Medical Center in Clewiston. Maybe they went there.”
“Often the mob uses its own doctors, or has members of the family go to specific places for treatment. Sometimes they eat their own—meaning since Rizzo knows that Bertoni gave up Dino Scarpa’s name to me. There could be repercussions for Bertoni, especially if Din
o Scarpa is behind the murder and scalping of Lawrence Barton.”
“Repercussions? Are you talking about the oath members of the mob take?”
“Omertà, a code of silence. That’s another reason it’s hard to charge someone in a mob hit. Usually, no one talks. If Dino Scarpa learns that Bertoni exposed him, and they think I’m working as an undercover cop, a captain or underboss sometimes orders the one closest to the informant to take him out.”
“And that might be Tony Rizzo.” She set her coffee cup on the saucer. “Since you were stalked and attacked by these men, do you want to file charges? Keep it in the open, maybe as a record or insurance in case …” She blew out a deep breath.
“Do you mean in case you find my body in the trunk of a car? No, I don’t want to file a report. As a matter of fact, let’s just keep it between us until we can get a sharper focus on the players. Sometimes, if you disturb the hive too much, the bees pack up the queen and fly the coop.” O’Brien glanced at his watch. “Give me a sec to send a text.”
“Are you texting Joe’s lawyer?”
“No, I’m texting a friend of mine who’s one of the nation’s best at covert work. He’s retired CIA, and right now he’s tracking the Mercedes that Rizzo and Bertoni are driving.”
“Really? How’s he doing that?”
“Because I slapped a GPS tracker on the undercarriage of their car.”
“When did you do that?”
“When no one was looking.”
“Maybe you’re working undercover. How would I know?”
“You wouldn’t unless I told you. I’m working for Joe Billie, and the last thing I’m doing is undercover. I don’t have time because Joe doesn’t have the time. Let’s go. We’re looking for a body somewhere in the Everglades, and time’s running out for Joe Billie.”
FIFTY
They took O’Brien’s Jeep, Wynona giving directions as to the best route to follow. She tied her dark hair back, riding on the passenger’s side, the wind through the partially open window jostling her ponytail. “Once we get to Sam Otter’s property, where exactly do you want to go?”
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