A Time For Justice

by Nick Oldham

  The Bucar was discovered at 9 a.m. two days later, parked on a grassy knoll alongside a lake near to the main entrance to Florida International University, about ten miles from downtown Miami.

  A campus cop had driven slowly past it a couple of times on his rounds and eventually decided to ticket it for being illegally parked.

  He strolled up to it, unfolding his ticket pad whilst whistling and chewing. He had almost completed writing the ticket before he actually glanced inside the vehicle. Something unusual caught his eye: a hand on the passenger seat. On closer inspection he saw that the hand was attached to the arm of a body which was doubled up into the front passenger footwell, as though neatly folded into place.

  The cop stopped whistling, dropped his pad and his gum fell out of his mouth. Then he saw the other two bodies laid on top of each other behind the front seats.

  He did what a good cop should have done: sealed the scene and called for backup - after he’d finished vomiting.

  The first detective on the scene was Ram Chander.

  He strolled up to the Bucar and looked inside at the three bodies. ‘I got a gut feeling about this one already,’ he admitted to the campus cop. ‘I bet we get nowhere with it.’

  Epilogue

  Amongst his many failings, Henry Christie acknowledged that his greatest was that he was not a romantic at heart. In all his married life he had never regularly bought flowers, gifts nor cards for Kate, other than at her birthday or Christmas. Valentine’s Day merely passed him by; their wedding anniversary was just another date on the calendar. He had expected her to take his love for granted and that, he now saw, was probably one of the many reasons why their marriage had run into difficulties.

  Now he was making up for lost time.

  Whilst Kate had been in hospital he had showered her with flowers, cards and gifts, and continually let her know what he felt about her.

  She had spent four weeks in hospital, the first six days in intensive care with major, possibly life-threatening injuries.

  On her discharge she’d spent further weeks convalescing at home in Henry’s care. He had taken special leave and with the assistance of Jenny and Leanne - whom he allowed to stay off school for the purpose - and a district nurse, Henry gentled her back to health.

  When she was fit enough, he did what he thought was the most romantic thing he’d ever done - booked a second honeymoon and arranged for the kids to stay with their grandparents.

  They watched the blazing sun disappear quickly into the Mediterranean. There was no moon, just blackness and a warm breeze. Both were dressed in shorts and T-shirts, nothing on their feet but the fine golden sand which filtered through their toes. They held hands.

  The beach was deserted.

  Henry felt euphorically happy.

  They hadn’t said anything for a while, but it was a contented silence.

  ‘That was a beautiful sunset,’ Kate said.

  ‘I cannot disagree.’

  She squeezed his hand. He bent over and kissed her briefly on the lips, but the brief kiss became a lingering, wet, exploring one, sending a charge of excitement through both of them. It was like their first real kiss.

  When they broke apart, Henry said, ‘I love you.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured happily, a wide grin on her face.

  They began to walk slowly down the beach towards the hotel.

  ‘I don’t want this to end,’ she said. ‘It’s been lovely, but I do miss the girls.’

  ‘Me too - on both counts.’

  They walked a little further in silence.

  ‘So, is it all over, Henry, this Corelli business?’

  ‘For us, I hope so. Corelli’s still operating and I’ve no doubt he’ll team up with some other big-time British criminal to import drugs ... but it’ll take some time, I expect. I think we put a pretty big dent in his operation when the Navy pulled that freighter in the Irish Sea ... but, from our point of view, I think we’ve probably seen the last of him.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad. It was his evil that cast a shadow on us all, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah ... everything started with him.’

  Kate interlocked her fingers into Henry’s.

  ‘Kate, I thought I’d killed you. If you had died, it would’ve been my fault. You see, I told that personnel carrier to ram him.’

  They had stopped and were facing each other, still holding hands. ‘You weren’t to know where I was,’ she said softly. ‘Don’t feel guilty. I’m alive, you’re alive, we’re back together and we’ve got a future ... and that’s all that matters. Us and the girls.’

  Henry looked sullenly at his feet as he poked around in the sand with his toes.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ she asked.

  ‘He told me everything he did to you. Everything.’

  ‘Henry, he hasn’t done anything to me. He might have hurt me physically, but I detached myself from what he was doing. He might as well have done it to a piece of meat. He didn’t touch me here.’ She laid his hand over her heart. ‘Only you can touch me there.’

  ‘You’re very strong and I feel so weak and pathetic.’

  ‘Don’t. What happened between him and me means nothing. It’s taken a while for it to work out, but I’ll tell you one thing, darling...’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s about time you did touch me.’

  ‘I didn’t want to rush anything.’

  She slid her T-shirt off and allowed her shorts to fall to the sand. ‘Here?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Here and now,’ she ordered him. She reached out, unfastened his shorts, pulled them over his thighs, down to his ankles. He pulled off his shirt and threw it to one side.

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to-’

  His words were cut short by the forefinger she placed on his lips. She moved up close to him, skin to skin. It felt like the most sensational thing in the world. Her hard nipples pressing into his chest, her moist bush pressed around his thigh and his hard penis pressed against her soft belly.

  ‘I wonder if it’s true what they say,’ he said, as he gently lowered her down.

  ‘What?’ she mumbled.

  ‘That sand gets everywhere.’

  Corelli enjoyed Cuban food. One of his favourite restaurants was the Versailles which was in SW 8th street, just to the west of Little Havana on Calle Ocho. It had one of the largest Cuban menus in Miami and he could fill himself for around ten dollars on steak with plantains and rice. Even though he was extremely wealthy he still liked a bargain - and the Versailles was a bargain.

  It was just on noon, and the restaurant was already very crowded. Nevertheless he had been shown directly to a table in one corner where he could sit, Mafia-style, his back to the wall, with an advantageous view of everyone coming and going. He had no particular reason to be worried, but old habits die hard, and you could never be too sure.

  At the table were four others beside Corelli. Stanton, the bodyguard; Lucas, the man most likely to replace Hinksman; and two British businessmen who seemed rather cowed and overawed by the illustrious Italian. They had been thoroughly searched by Stanton and Lucas prior to being allowed to sit down. They were clean.

  Specific business was discussed over the main course. This was one of the few public places where Corelli occasionally conducted his affairs. Over dessert and coffee they chatted about things in general.

  After a pause in conversation, one of the Brits cleared his throat and began rather hesitantly, ‘They say you had three FBI operatives silenced recently.’

  Stanton stiffened. He looked quickly at his boss. Was this a subject that could be discussed - or was it taboo? Corelli raised a calming hand, indicating he did not mind. Stanton relaxed.

  ‘People say many things,’ Corelli said mysteriously.

  ‘If it is true, we are very impressed,’ said Brit number two.

  ‘Occasionally the authorities need to know where they stand.’

 
‘They were three troublesome people,’ Corelli said. ‘As it happens,’ he went on, ‘I did not have them silenced, I had them executed. ‘

  The two Brits laughed nervously.

  ‘I was judge and jury,’ Corelli said, ‘and Mr Lucas here was executioner. ‘

  Lucas raised a glass. The two Brits felt their anal passages tighten and contract, but managed a smile each.

  ‘I propose a toast,’ said Corelli, picking up his own glass. ‘To the FBI and law-enforcement officers the world over: may they continue to be so bad at the administration of justice.’

  Everyone laughed and raised their glasses.

  No one at the table paid any particular heed to the woman who entered the restaurant at that moment and walked towards them, snaking her way between tables. She was tall, elegant and walked like a model; swaying hips, confidence. Sass.

  She was very well dressed in a blouse and tight mini-skirt which showed off her long tanned, shapely legs. She had a green silk scarf tied around her head and wore a pair of dark glasses.

  Neither did they pay any attention to the skinny black girl who had been eating at a table with her back to them. Similarly attired to the first woman, she rose slowly from her seat.

  The woman who had walked into the restaurant held a small purse delicately in front of her. She went straight up to Corelli’s party and smiled. Her blouse was tight-fitting and made of sheer silk which showed her generous breasts at their best. Her nipples were erect and she was breathing shortly, almost panting, as though she was excited.

  ‘Mr Corelli?’ she asked.

  Lucas became alert. Corelli laid a finger on his sleeve to check him. He smiled up at the woman, somewhat distracted by the figure. ‘Yes, what can I do for you?’

  Slowly she removed her scarf and allowed it to waft gently to the floor. She took her sunglasses off, folded them deliberately and slid them into her bag, keeping her hand inside.

  ‘You sent me a letter a while ago,’ she said.

  Corelli saw the ravages of the first stages of plastic surgery all the way up one side of her face. He was repelled and his face showed it. ‘And then you killed my man, Joe Kovaks.’

  The hand in her purse came out holding the .32 calibre Smith & Wesson revolver.

  Lucas began to make for his gun.

  Stanton went for his too.

  The Brits sat rigid, somewhere in the middle of all this.

  The gun in the woman’s hand swung quickly in Corelli’s direction. His eyes widened. He dropped his fork, tried to cower.

  Lucas’s gun was partly out. He was very fast.

  Stanton cursed. His gun was stuck.

  Corelli’s eyes grew wider. His mouth opened to shout something. He had nowhere to go.

  Neither Stanton nor Lucas saw the black girl wheel round from her table. Held low in her hands was a double-barrelled sawn-off shot-gun which she’d smuggled in underneath her top coat. She held it like a professional.

  The Smith & Wesson discharged all six shots into Corelli’s head in rapid succession, the trigger being yanked back in a frenzied, jerking movement. A bigger gun would have caused too much recoil in her hand for full control, but the relatively small calibre meant that, despite the anger, it was easy for her to ensure complete accuracy.

  Corelli’s head twisted grotesquely as the bullets whacked into him. One right in the centre of the forehead, two into the temple, one directly through his left eye and the final two in his face on either side of his nose.

  The first barrel from the shot-gun took most of Lucas’s head off. The blast toppled him backwards over his chair into the wall behind - already splattered with his brains; the second barrel removed most of Stanton’s right shoulder which exploded as if an ounce of Semtex had been inserted in the joint.

  The restaurant erupted in a whirlwind of panic.

  Corelli was dead, slumped horribly back in his chair, with the last gasp of air gurgling out of his lungs in dribbling bubbles of blood.

  The two women dropped their weapons and walked slowly through the chaos, unchallenged, free, not looking anywhere but dead ahead.

  At Corelli’s table, the two Brits, petrified with fear, still hadn’t moved.

  For more information on Nick Oldham and his books visit www.nickoldham.net or ‘Nick Oldham Books’ on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Nick-Oldham-Books/134265683315905