We went to the lobby. Sal looked incongruous with a large cooler, a duffel bag and a fishing rod and net, with their purchase tags. I hoped no shop assistant had been garrotted to get them.
We loaded ourselves into a large rental RUV Buick and headed north after grunting introductions to each other and slapping each other’s backs. I’d hot-tubbed with Big Paul after all. Sal sat in the front, his seat pushed way back while Jonah stretched out in the rear.
Sal said, ‘I bin told you two know what you doin’. I hope so.’
‘Been around,’ said Jonah.
‘Q said both you’re OK. So that’s OK wit me. I don’t know much what the fuck’s been goin’ on. I don’t ask no questions. Just do what I’m told.’
He spoke while looking out the window, his hands clasped on his belly. I guessed he had more bite than bark as otherwise Quaranto would not have sent him along. Or maybe he was so stupid that Paul Q could trust him with anything and know that he would be incapable of betrayal, being unaware of exactly what really was happening at any given time. Or maybe a bit of both. Or maybe my mind was totally triangulated by all these convoluted angles.
He said, ‘Where we stayin’ tonight? On this friggin’ lake?’
I said, ‘We’ll find somewhere we can keep an eye on the Commodore. You might have to do a lot of the eyeing.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Because this Sayers guy knows us. He don’t know you from Adam.’
‘Who’s this Adam guy then?’ said Jimmy.
He burst out laughing as he saw the look on my face. Maybe this wasn’t going to be such a bad couple of days after all.
We were heading north on US 27 past the fast food restaurants that stretched to infinity.
‘What’s your last name, Sal?’ said Jonah.
‘Orsino. Salvatore Orsino.’
‘Got a nice ring to it,’ I said.
‘Got a nickname?’ said Jonah. ‘A nom de Mob?’
He made the effort to shift his bulk around to face Jonah before he replied. ‘What you think it is?’
‘No idea.’
‘What about you?’
He shifted himself back to face me.
‘I give in.’
‘It’s Speedy. Speedy fuckin’ Gonzalez. Da comic mouse. Ain’t that something else.’
I nodded in agreement.
‘You guys want to eat, we could find somewhere near South Bay,’ I said.
Sal said, ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
I took the hint and soon pulled in to a row of eateries. Sal sat in half of the booth at a family diner while Jonah and I took the other half. I chose a rundown looking place I thought Sayers wouldn’t visit and sat where we could keep an eye on the door and the car park, just in case. I hoped we’d got everything right and there were no last minute changes of plan.
Sal had a large banana double ice cream milkshake with a side of egg burger and double fries while Jonah and I settled for coffee, and tuna on toasted rye, melted with amorphous beige cheese.
‘You guys should eat more. There might be lousy food where we going.’
‘So we’ll catch some fish,’ I said as I gave him the three-quarters of my tuna melt I didn’t want, the other quarter I left on my plate. As we left the restaurant I noticed the three heartburn tablets the restaurant had been awarded by the Michelin guide.
We headed east a while then north on US 441. The Commodore Motel was on the northwest side of Lake Okeechobee near Sleep-water but we fancied a scenic drive. It was Sunday afternoon after all, and we wanted to keep a leisurely eye out to see if we were being tailed.
The large lake was mainly hidden from view by dikes, a thirty foot levee and trees which hugged the shore. We drove through Belle Glade, a sad-looking sugar growing town which proclaimed her soil to be her fortune. Jonah said, ‘Belle Glade probably some stripper in the roaring twenties. So famous they named the town after her. That sign should really say she soiled herself for her fortune.’
North of Pahokee, mega-Winnebagos clogged the roads as they vied for spots with electric hook-ups so they could rough it with their microwaves and satellite TVs. Houses were built on stilts to catch the breezes and ride above the floodwaters in the cottontail-riddled cane fields. And tired-looking budget lodgings lined the route with promises of cable TV and amenities, while fishing tackle shops offered the lure of free mosquito repellent with their premium all-the-fish-they-can-eat bait package.
At the top of the lake we passed Taylor Creek and then headed south crossing the Kissimmee River into Glades County. Among the cow pastures a sign pointed us to Brighton Seminole Indian Reservation and cheap cigarettes and bingo.
We soon arrived in Sleepwater, a town of a few blocks of diners, RV parks and cheap motels, the sort of town where you really meant the sentiments in sending someone a wish-you- were-here postcard. It was comatose rather than sleepy. Fodor’s directed us to Sleepwater’s outskirts, although it scarcely had inskirts, until we found Boone Dock, where Crackermans Creek met the lake. The E had been appropriately sprayed over on the Boone Dock sign, some time ago.
Adjoining the decaying jetty was the Commodore Motel’s once pink stucco glory, now condemned to a faded and flaking ignominy. Flickering red letters neoned on its sign welcomed guests to he Commod e Mo.
About thirty yards east we saw a lodge with a view of the Commodore’s car park and front entrance. It made the Bates Motel look like the Connaught, but looked as if it had rooms available. I parked at the side, out of sight of The Commodore.
I rang the bell. A superannuated guy was sitting behind a glass partition at the rear of the reception desk watching I Love Lucy, which might not even be a rerun in this backwater. Next to the television was a valve radio in a wooden cabinet.
He ignored me so I rang again. ‘Heard you first time,’ he said in his Cracker voice, shuffling toward the desk around a disabled Coke dispenser still advertising a bottle for a quarter. Corroded brass plates attested to the provenance of a couple of mounted bass, on the peeling walls. A motionless fan hung from the ceiling, generations of expired insect life staining its yellowed light shade. A floor-mounted fan noisily circulated hot air around the lobby with its off-centre blades.
He peered at me while scratching his two-day-old white stubble. Wondering why I was wearing my shades indoors maybe. Or why my Detroit Tigers cap was pulled well down.
‘We need three rooms. One night. I’ll pay cash as we’ll be out early.’
‘Got a reservation? It’s a busy time of year.’
I looked at the bumper crop of keys in the pigeon holes.
‘No. But it looks like you may have space.’
‘Looks can be deceiving. But let me see what we have here.’
He carefully balanced old tortoiseshell half-glasses on the end of his nose. They had an arm missing. He thumbed very deliberately through a guest register.
‘How many you want?’
‘Three rooms. Upper level.’
‘How many are you again?’
It was a hot day and I was tiring of the charade. I counted out three C notes onto the counter.
‘One, two, three.’
He cleaned his specs on his filthy shirt while he squinted at me.
I counted out three more bills. Crisp fifties.
‘One, two, three. For extras. French champagne from the mini bar. The beluga. The blinis. That sort of stuff.’
He reluctantly removed three keys from the rack.
‘No need to be rude about it. Top three at the end,’ he said, pointing to his right, after he had scooped up the notes.
I filled in the details for all three of us in the register and didn’t bother asking which air miles programme the motel participated in.
We had a good view of The Commodore from the privacy of our rooms and whoever was coming and going there. We also overlooked the lake.
A picket line of fisherman’s boats were anchored about forty or so yards off the shoreline as they vied for that
trophy monster largemouth bass.
That gave me an idea.
31
At 6.30 in the morning in floppy hats we presented ourselves as three fishermen to Joe’s Bait, Tackle, Beer&Boats, where we bought three fishing licences and rented a boat, paying cash. Sal filled a cooler with beer and sandwiches. I added bottled water as it could be a long and dehydrating day. He also bought a collapsible deckchair for himself and two folding chairs for Jonah and me.
Our vessel was an outboard motorised floating platform on two large metal pontoons with a detachable fabric roof, supported by poles in each corner of the deck. Clear plastic could be lowered on either side to afford weather protection, and to give a degree of cover from anyone looking from the shore. A small cabin had an adjoining john. The three men in a boat set to sea and we found an anchorage that allowed us to scope The Commodore, and the road leading to it.
Sal pulled a foot-long proscuitto from the cooler he had brought from Miami. ‘They’ll love this. Put some on a hook.’
It was already too hot and we popped some cold beers. I dropped the plastic screen halfway down the front of our craft and settled with the binoculars in a chair behind the two coolers stacked one atop the other.
The lake was busy with the hard-core early-birds out to catch the best fish. A runabout and a small Boston whaler were anchored on either side of our pontoon boat, and their occupants nodded to us as they were setting up their fishing gear.
A family was on the runabout to our left, baseball caps with the visors to the rear. ‘You guys using shiners or spinners?’ said the guy with the supersized rod.
Jonah said, ‘Trying both,’ giving a fair impression of someone who knew what a shiner was.
‘Let’s know what’s working for you. We’ll do the same,’ Some nice blue gill yesterday, right where you are now. The suckers just lerved our shiners. And don’t you just lerve this Big-O?’
Jonah lowered the cover down on their side of the boat to signify the end of the conversation.
I looked round the shoreline. The bait shop was doing good business. Pick-ups and 4x4s were hitched to small boats and were lining up to access the two available launching ramps. At the end of the jetty I could see someone sitting reading a newspaper near a pay-phone, while he smoked a cigar. He looked familiar even at a distance as the second guy from the door of Tommy Teats.
I said, handing Sal my binoculars, ‘Friend of yours?’
‘A friend of mine,’ said Sal.
Jonah said, ‘As in a friend of ours?’
‘You guys been watching too many movies. Too much TV. All them Federal tapes. We ain’t got no secrets no more. It ain’t right.’
Sal sliced off a couple of chunks of his Italian sausage with his Swiss Army pocket knife, offering one to each of us in turn off the blade.
‘This fuckin TV. Get this,’ he said. ‘Me kids. Son and daughter – thirteen and fourteen. Got a couple of friends in the house after school. This kid, his friend, fifteen maybe. He asks my son if his dad gets blow jobbed lunchtime at Tommy’s like the guys at Bada Bing in The Sopranos. In front of me and my fucking wife.’
‘So what’d your kid say?’ I said.
‘I dunno what he said. I leave. But I get home later that night. Me wife don’t talk. No fucking dinner. Kids are laughing. So later I’m sitting in the tub and she walks in. “Nice blow at Tommy’s today?” she says. Throws me robe in the bath. Then comes back with a Brillo pad and throws it at me as well. “While you’re about it, wash it with this, Salvatore,” she says. “Need some Ajax as well – catch this.” Then she locks the fucking bedroom door.’ He finished his can of beer as he relived the moment in his mind. ‘Three fucking days this shit went on. Salva-fucking-tore this. Salva-fucking-tore that. Hasn’t called me Salvatore in years. On the fourth day I comes home. A shiny new black Navigator four-wheel drive in the driveway, fully loaded. She’s gone and bought it. Me dinner’s on the table and she’s all smiles. Fucking beautiful.’
‘That’s the end of it?’ I said.
He laughed. ‘So she says. “These broads at Tommy’s. In future, they want to blow anything, send them round to polish my tow bar. Except they’d probably suck the chrome off it.” Her hands on her hips while she’s telling me this. So the next day, what do I do. I’m in Tommy’s and I tell Big Paul about it. He can’t stop fucking laughing. When he stops I’m just staring at him. So he sends me out back, goes and gets Bunny and then I get me first ever blow in the club.’
‘Sort of like fringe benefits those corporations offer,’ said Jonah.
‘Whaddya fuckin’ mean, fringe,’ Sal said. ‘This ain’t on the house. That fucking miserable Pauli. At the end of the week twoand-a-half bills is missing from my taste of the week’s score. So I asks him why I’m short two fifty bucks? I got no indoor money outstanding. He laughs. “I’ve levied a self-gratification tax,” he says. “A fellatio fine.”’
By now there was a lot of activity on the lake and we were part of a sentry line of boats stretching around the shoreline. Jonah was keeping up the pretence of spinning for fish with a hookless spinner, not wanting the distraction of landing one while we kept our watch on the motel. Sal napped in his deckchair, his hat lying across his face.
At eleven a van pulled up outside the motel’s entrance. A guy who looked like he worked for a living got out. He went inside the motel briefly before going to an upstairs balcony where he started dismantling an air conditioning unit. False alarm. He left after about half an hour taking the unit with him. I hoped he wouldn’t be back for a while.
A four-wheel drive county sheriff’s cruiser was inching along the foreshore. It parked briefly near the jetty as the deputy got out to talk to two boaters tied up there. He nodded to Sal’s mate who was leaning on the jetty railing before he walked over to a convenience store. He came out a few minutes later with a brown paper bag and a newspaper.
Sal’s accomplice walked over to the tackle shop and remained inside as the cruiser drove away. He resumed his position on the pier, this time with an ice box and a fishing net as props.
A Honda hatchback had driven along the lakeside a couple of times and it now pulled up outside the motel where we’d spent the last evening. A Hispanic got out from the driver’s seat and went inside. After about ten minutes he returned and spoke to the front seat passenger who then got out. It was Sayers. Banco.
He walked up the steps and into a room next to one we’d rented last evening as I tried to think of the symbolism there.
I said to Sal, passing him my binoculars, ‘That’s the target, on the landing.’
He said, ‘OK, got him,’ handing the binoculars back to me. He scrolled through his cell phone and dialled. The guy at the end of the jetty answered the pay-phone, casually looking around him as he spoke. He looked up at Sayers on the balcony and hung up.
Sal said, ‘That’s there’s Tony. He likes to use public phones where he can. He’s old-fashioned. A throwback to his Brooklyn gang days. Before cell phones. So I got the pay phone number last night.’
‘That cell traceable?’ I said.
‘It’s a rip-off. Cloned a couple of days ago and I’ll dump it after we finish. There’s more here if it don’t work no more. You want some?’
I declined his offer with a shake of the head.
Jonah had a digital video camera in his hand. It was compact, fitting neatly in his palm. He was filming the fishing boats.
Sal said, ‘What you fucking doing with that? Don’t take no pictures of me. I get enough of those done every day by the Feds.’
‘Relax, Sal,’ I said. ‘It makes us look like a few pals on a vacation fishing trip.’
‘Just don’t point that camera at me. That’s all. I’m para-fuckingnoid ‘bout them things.’
Sayers stayed on the balcony for a couple of minutes, leaning on its railing, surveying the scene. His driver had a tennis kit bag slung over his shoulder.
‘Why’s he not at The Commodore?’ said Sal.
&nb
sp; ‘Being extra careful. He can keep an eye on things from there.’
Tony was walking along the foreshore before he stopped alongside a Dodge designed to carry Mum, Dad and seven kids, a few bicycles plus a dog or two. He spoke to someone inside before walking away and settling at a pay phone near a bait kiosk. The darkened-window RUV drove out of sight behind The Commodore.
My cell went. It was Rafe calling from Hialeah.
He said, ‘The fishing’s on here.’
I said, ‘Same here,’ and hung up.
The trucks were in the warehouse and I just had to hope there was no federal bust before confirmation of the handover was received by Sayers.
Jonah handed his binoculars to me. ‘That’s the Irishman, Mullan.’
Walking toward The Commodore from a parked Jeep were two men dressed in old dungarees and carrying four athletic bags. One was Mullan. The other I recognised as one of the Cubans photographed at the warehouse in Hialeah. They looked down the driveway and across to the lake and the foreshore before going into a unit on the lower floor.
‘It’s the third door from the right, ground floor,’ I said to Sal who relayed the details to Tony who made a call on the pay phone.
‘For Christ’s sake. Get together soon you guys,’ I said.
Sayers’ motel door opened and he and the driver emerged onto the landing. The driver had the racquet cover in his hand, the handle part pointing forward. In Sayers’ hand was a cell phone, which he kept looking at anxiously.
A couple of minutes later he put it to his ear and nodded a few times. He made a call before saying something to the driver.
Sal had been watching events. He called Tony who hung up and started walking along the lake while talking into his cell. He took up a position about thirty yards in front of The Commodore, chatting to a fisherman carrying a rod and a bait and lure box.
Kill City USA Page 27