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Seminole Bend

Page 27

by Tom Hansen


  “Holy crap, Willy! Is that rattlesnake venom you be drinking?”

  “Relax, O, just wanted to wake you up.”

  “Well, I be good to go nows, for God’s sake!”

  “I have a job for you, Otis,” Willy said while staring candidly into Otis’ bloodshot eyes.

  “Pay more than Muckers, Willy?”

  “Can’t say right now. When I get some cash on hand, I’ll make sure you’re well compensated.”

  “What’s a cumsated?”

  “Compensated. That means you’ll get money for working for me. Only thing is you may have to wait awhile to get paid.”

  “What I be doing, Will?”

  “Detective work, Otis. You’ll be a chief detective in my new agency. And do you think your buddy, Lance, might want a job, too?”

  “A detective, just like in the movies?”

  “Yep, but this work is going to be more risky than the movies, O.”

  “I think Lance could be talked into it. Will he get cumsated, too?”

  * * * * *

  “What you want? You said you was done with me last night, Willy Banks.” Lance rubbed his eyes and sat up in the car. He had been sleeping in the back seat of the Buick with the flat tire, the one his cousin Lenny had stolen. Lance knew the cops were too busy with local killings to bother looking for filched cars from the coast. He figured he had another good week or so to sleep and fool around with Evie in the back seat before somebody hauled it away.

  “I’m gonna cut right to the chase, Lance. You want a job?”

  “Hmmm. Gee, I don’t know. Does it have a better retirement plan than my panhandling career?” Lance had no idea what Willy wanted, but getting up and going to work wasn’t exactly appealing to him at this moment of lassitude.

  “Funny man, ain’t you Lance? Okay, here’s the deal. I’ve decided to be a private investigator and I need your help locating someone. You’d be working with Otis.” Willy gestured to Otis, who had both hands stuck in his front pockets and was standing behind Willy. Otis smiled at Lance.

  “I ain’t much good at answering no phones, Willy. Best you let Otis do that part. I could be your limo driver, though. What’s you paying?”

  “My limo is that there 1958 Nash Rambler with three hubcaps missing.” Willy pointed to the car that he and Otis drove to the Dixie Food and Drug. “It was a gift to me from the Yardly family after Bo’s funeral. We was best friends and he was killed in Nam. Bo’s parents gave the Rambler to him when he graduated from high school as a way to get to Bama and back during college. I guess he forgot to change the oil cuz it ain’t running too great. Thing is, Lance, I don’t need a driver or even a secretary to answer phones. I need investigators.”

  “I hears about your buddy Bo. Played in the NFL, huh?” Willy nodded, then Lance continued. “Investigators? Yep, that’s right up my alley. Been telling Evie I’d make a good professional sleuth, ya know. Sure the pay will be perfect for my ‘bilities, too, right Willy?”

  “Right now I ain’t got no money, Lance. You and Otis will have to wait awhile to get paid. I’m hoping there might be a reward out sometime for finding Agnes Potts’ killers. Any money we scrape up from rewards, we split equally three ways.”

  “Ya think there’s any reward on this old Buick yet? Maybe we could call them police over in Stuart and tells them we beat up a car thief over here in Seminole Bend and confiscated his car. Bet they make us some kind of heroes over in Stuart and give us some big bucks! Probably want our pictures on the front page of the news, too. Good free advertising for our new business. What you think, Willy?”

  “Ever heard of fingerprints, Lance? May not work out the best for your cousin Lenny if they find his in the car. But I have something to get us started. Ever run into a loner Mexican dude around here who likes fishing?”

  “Who don’t like fishing? And them Mexicans are geniuses at catching speckled perch with nothing but a cane pole and a hook. Don’t even need no bait. They wiggle that copper hook until them fish get hypnotized and bite down on it!” Lance and Otis looked and nodded at each other.

  Willy had no plans to keep Lance and Otis on a permanent payroll for his new business. But he thought they might be able to track down one of their own: an insignificant resident of Seminole Bend with pitiable income. He didn’t know how he would end the work relationship if and when they located the Mexican man, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now. Willy wouldn’t lose sleep over putting Lance back to unemployment status, but Otis was his brother and that would be a different story.

  “We need to patch up that tire on Lenny’s Buick so you and Otis can have some wheels.” Willy had always been an honest man and just the thought of using a stolen vehicle for this operation was causing him genuine anxiety. Sheriff Bonty would like nothing better than to catch Willy red-handed and book him with grand theft auto. They needed to locate the Mexican quickly and return the car back the way they found it to the Dixie Food and Drug parking lot.

  “What we do, bro, if cops stops us for auto robbery?” Otis wanted nothing to do with being a felony thief. Spending a night or two in the jailhouse for stealing sardines off the shelf at the grocery store was one thing, sitting in prison for five years was another.

  “Tell them you saw the car parked at Dixie Food and Drug for a few days, but no one ever drove it. You were just turning it in to the sheriff’s office because you are both proper citizens doing your civic duty.” Willy couldn’t look at Otis or Lance directly in the eyes when he said it, but he hoped they would buy his story.

  Otis glanced over at Lance and nodded in affirmation, “I was planning on telling ya, Lance, that Willy is dang smart at figuring things out. That’s a great plan, bro.” Looking at the expression on his face, Willy could tell that Lance wasn’t so sure. But he nodded back, then looked at the Buick.

  “How we fix that dang tire, Willy?”

  “Check the trunk for a spare. That’s all we need to drive it. Do you have the keys, Lance?”

  “Yep, Lenny left ‘em with me.

  “Good, we best get started fast.”

  Lance jacked up the rear end while Willy unfastened the lug nuts. The donut spare tire had been used already and it needed air, but Willy thought it might last a couple of days. Otis’ job was to be on the lookout for a police or sheriff’s cruiser. They finished up in fifteen minutes, then Lance got in the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition. Surprisingly, there were no issues with the battery or plugs. Lance revved the engine several times while Otis got in the passenger seat.

  Willy leaned on the driver’s side door and Lance rolled down the window. “Start looking over at Taylor Creek and ask people fishing if they ever see a Mexican round there. Park the car in a place that it won’t be noticed for a while. I can’t give you much of a description of the Mexican dude other than he was about five foot seven or eight, skinny with black hair. Then, tonight get down to McDonald’s and make sure you are there at sunset. Most of the Mexicans in Seminole Bend are migrants who pick oranges in the winter. They work for a place called Gold Coast Fruit Company down in Fort Pierce, but most of them live here cuz it’s cheaper. They got some old rusty van that picks them up every morning where they lives and drops them off at night, but they always stop at McDonald’s for a burger before heading home. They will be in a hurry, so you two need to be there to ask all of them questions before they leave.”

  “What we supposed to ask ‘em when we sees ‘em, Willy?” Otis was a bit confused with this new detective vocation of his.

  “Just plain ask them if they was the one who saved a big ass black man on the Kissimmee a few weeks ago. Look them straight in the eyes when you ask. If you find the one, you’ll see him get panicked and scared cuz he won’t know what you want with him. Otherwise you’ll just get a confused look.”

  “You should give us some cuffs, Willy. That way when we catch him, we can keep him in one place ‘til you get there,” declared Otis proudly.

  “No Otis, you�
�re not putting cuffs on him. We can’t arrest him cuz we’re not the police. Besides, the man saved my life and he ain’t broke no law.”

  “So, how do we get him to talk to you? What if he takes off running?”

  “Tell him I just want to give him some cash and take him to dinner for saving my life. Be nice. He probably will want to know who you two are, so tell him you’re my brother and that Lance is a good friend.”

  “But how do we find you after we finds him?”

  “I’m going down to the Department of Natural Resources office in Homestead. Probably won’t be back until seven or eight. I need to talk to the director, Sam Dulie. He’s got some connection to Roy Jackson and I ain’t leaving ‘til I found out what it is. If I ain’t back yet, I will call Lance’s phone booth around eight o’clock to give you an update ‘bout where I am. If you can talk the Mexican dude into meeting up at Sal’s Steakhouse around nine, then I would buy you all a juicy sirloin. He should be back from picking oranges by then.”

  Otis smiled again at Lance and winked. “See, I told ya that Willy is pretty dang smart. Runs in the family, ya know!”

  CHAPTER 48

  Thursday, March 11, 1982

  7:55 a.m.

  L ew screeched into the FBI parking lot at 7:55 a.m. and pounded on his brakes. He had made good time despite the traffic woes. His Trans Am had to pull off to the shoulder of State Road 710 several times to keep from being a hindrance to the multitude of emergency vehicles heading from West Palm Beach to the airplane accident staging area at Angler’s Delight Marina. Lew slammed the transmission into park and sprung from the car, leaving the driver’s side door wide open as he sprinted to the front door of the building. He collided head on with two blue suits coming out while he was going in. One of the suits belonged to Agent Tecka.

  “Sorry, sorry!” exclaimed Lew as the three men tried to regain their composure. “Agent Tecka, right? I have a meeting with Agent Jones and I was running late. Sorry again!”

  “You won’t find Jack here,” said Tecka shaking his head. “He’s gone to Tampa. Emergency meeting with the FAA and NTSB about the plane crash this morning. He left an envelope for you inside and said to meet him tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.”

  “My wife! What about my wife? Did he find something out?” pleaded Lew.

  “Don’t know, but maybe there’s some information in that envelope. We’ve got to go, Mr. Berry. Sorry, but I’ll be in that meeting with you tomorrow. Excuse us, please!” The two FBI agents dusted themselves off, straightened their ties and walked to their car. Lew was losing it. He watched the agents for a few seconds and tried to relax before going inside.

  “May I help you, sir?” asked the front desk receptionist.

  “Yes, my name is Lew Berry and I understand that Agent Jones left an envelope for me.

  “Oh, yes, I have it,” replied the receptionist. She opened the middle drawer and took out a manila envelope with Lew Berry’s name written on the front. “And Agent Jones asked me to tell you how sorry he was for cancelling your meeting and wanted to reschedule for tomorrow morning. Is that possible, Mr. Berry?”

  “I don’t believe I have much of a choice,” replied Lew sarcastically. “Okay, what time?”

  “How about the same as today, eight o’clock?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be there.” Lew took the envelope and jogged out to the Trans Am. From his front bucket seat, he unfastened the bronze metal clasp and pulled out an eight by ten grainy photograph printed on regular typing paper. It was a picture of his wife sitting in a café talking to a man whose back was towards the camera. Lew didn’t know when or where the picture was taken, or who the man was that was sipping coffee with Janet.

  Lew was overcome with emotions as he drove back to the Holiday Inn he had checked out of a few days earlier. He was holding out hope that Agent Jones had received encouraging information from the FBI in Pennsylvania and he would know tomorrow morning. Optimism was a virtue he had instilled in his son, but was rapidly fading from his own existence.

  CHAPTER 49

  Thursday, March 11, 1982

  12:05 p.m.

  T he distance from Seminole Bend to Homestead was about 150 miles. Willy’s Nash Rambler topped out at sixty-two miles per hour. If he got it up to sixty-three, chances were good the head gasket would blow. Willy guessed the trip would take him about four hours to complete because maneuvering around traffic in Miami was painstakingly slow. It was still early when he left Seminole Bend. He hoped to arrive at the DNR by noon and chat with Sam Dulie.

  When he was done with Sam, Willy planned to drive to Miami and camp somewhere outside the barbed wire fence that surrounded the FBI’s automobile impound lot. While still working at the sheriff’s department, he had read an addendum to Sheryl Berry’s accident report that stated what remained of her truck was being towed to the Miami lot for further examination. Willy wanted to know why, and he knew the FBI had no plans to tell him. On the passenger seat of the Nash Rambler were a pair of wire cutters for the fence and a crowbar for the Berry’s pickup truck. And in the backseat was a full-face ski mask. The FBI was certain to have a security camera somewhere on sight.

  Willy pulled the Rambler into the DNR lot a few minutes past noon. He parked near the entrance next to a newly washed, forest green, 1980 model Ford pickup truck that had the Great Seal of the State of Florida emblazoned on both the driver’s side and passenger doors. Stenciled above the seals was State of Florida – Department of Natural Resources in black, block letters. An identical truck was parked near a side entryway, but that truck was covered with mud, likely from a romp through the nearby Everglades National Park.

  Willy exited his vehicle and was heading to the front door of the building when he noticed something in the open bed of the DNR truck. Willy walked over and glanced in. It was a cigar box with no lid that was being used to store several small, cylindrical silver widgets with green wires sticking out the ends. Willy thought he remembered seeing objects such as those cylinders somewhere before. Then it dawned on him that the cylinders were similar to the one that Bo Yardly had used to rig a transistor radio while on leave from the Army back in 1970. Bo had manipulated the radio so it could intercept communications between pilots and air traffic controllers.

  Willy entered the DNR and noticed that there was a reception desk, but no one there to answer the phone or greet visitors. Next to the phone was a notepad and a pen, and dust covered the used and abused Formica top. Obviously, not much customer service action happened at the DNR.

  “Anybody home?” Willy spoke just loudly enough to get someone’s attention without sounding rude.

  A moment later a good-looking young man with dark skin and curly black hair came out of an office and approached Willy.

  “May I help you?” asked Sam Dulie as he offered his right hand to Willy. Willy shook his hand and paused a moment, not sure if he wanted to say what he was thinking.

  “Ah, sorry, yes, I’m looking for Sam Dulie,” stuttered Willy.

  “I’m Sam Dulie. May I ask who you are?”

  “My name’s Willy Banks. Pardon my words, but you don’t look like a Sam Dulie.”

  “And exactly what does a Sam Dulie supposed to look like, Mr. Banks?”

  “Well, you look like you hail from somewhere in the Middle East, like an Arab or something. But I’ve never heard an Arab named Sam or Dulie, and pardon me again for even mentioning it.” Willy wasn’t prejudice, but he did want to see how Sam reacted to this.

  “How about we skip the cheap talk and get down to business. How can I help you, Mr. Banks?”

  Willy had made no game plan on how he was proceeding with his questions. He thought of some options while driving to southern Florida, but none seemed to work in his mind. So he had decided to just wing it, not the best strategy for a private investigator, to be sure. Willy resolved to first find out about the box of tubes in the pickup truck parked out front.

  “I happened to notice you had a cigar box with
some cylinders laying in the bed of your truck.” Willy purposely did not ask a question. Once again, he wanted to see Sam’s reaction to that statement. But Sam was no fool and he remained impervious to Willy’s comment.

  “Okay, that’s great. You have extraordinary vision, Mr. Banks,” Sam uttered back calmly. “What is your business today with the Department of Natural Resources, sir?”

  “Please, no need to call me Mr. Banks or sir. I’m just Willy.”

  “Okay, Willy, let’s go back to square one. I am the supervisor of the South Florida region for the DNR. I’m assuming your visit today involves the department, no?”

  “Actually, Sam . . . I may call you Sam, right?” Dulie smiled and nodded back. “Actually, I’m here to ask you some questions about a man named Roy Jackson.” Willy could detect a faint startled expression on Sam’s face, but he hid it well.

  “Roy Jackson? And does this man have business with the Department of Natural Resources?” Sam wasn’t about to give an inch.

  “Not sure, but guessing he does seeing he called you a couple of weeks back.”

  “Let’s not play games, Willy. Why are you here? This man, Roy Jackson, may or may not have called a few weeks back. We don’t keep phone logs here. But now you need to explain who you are and what your visit is about because I need to get back to work.”

  “I’m a private investigator, Sam.” Willy was stretching the truth a bit, but then again, he was the only one seemingly interested in putting Roy Jackson’s ring of terror to an end, even if that meant telling a fib or two here and there.

  “Can I please see your credentials then? Some sort of identification.” Sam didn’t miss a beat, and now Willy had to think quickly. Willy’s mama always said that when in a bind, the truth was always the best option and you should give it a chance.

  “I’m an ex-cop from Seminole Bend’s sheriff’s department. I’d show you a badge, but it was taken from me when I was fired. I was fired because I had a mission to stop this man Roy Jackson’s criminal dictatorship. People are getting killed, good people, Sam. And the sheriff’s department is covering it up and protecting Jackson. I became a deputy to stop crime, not to light the flames of corruption like those people I worked for. And to be quite blunt, Sam, I believe you gave Roy the name and address of a boat owner a couple of weeks ago that resulted in his death and the death of his wife. So you want to see my credentials? Perhaps you can read them in my eyes.”

 

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