by Robert Lane
The bartender shot Garrett his best dagger eyes, mumbled something about getting back at him, and lumbered out the front door. When he opened the door, the outside light flashed in like a hydrogen bomb. As the door swung shut, the light vaporized out of the room.
“Now,” Captain Tony said, “why are you cruising in here and purposely causing such a ruckus?”
Garrett sauntered around to the back of the bar. He got a glass, dropped some ice in it, and added water. He came back around, stopped in front of Captain Tony, and said, “See? Was that so hard?”
Captain Tony eyed him. “You didn’t come here for water.”
I drained my beer, stood, and announced, “The Coleman boys retired—failed the drug test—and we’re free agents. Take us to your leader. We’re here to collect our half of what you took.”
Garrett and I had told the Colemans to stand down, told them we’d dive in and retrieve the half of Billy Ray’s cargo that was rightfully theirs, assuming that somehow their partners had gotten the money from Billy Ray either before or after his encounter with Jenny. No one was quite sure of that, but at the moment, it was our best logical conclusion, although its position was tenuous. Maybe Billy Ray had made contact with them and had planned to give them their half and conveniently rip off his brothers. Maybe he had tipped Captain Tony off to that, and the captain and his crew had decided to grab the entire bounty. Maybe the mob really did take out Marilyn Monroe and JFK, and little green men landed in Area 51. We were full of surmises and short of facts. All we knew was that Billy Ray was dead, and the money and Jenny were missing.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Captain Tony said. “I shoot pool all day.”
I replied, “It’s what you do at night that interests us.”
“You think barging in here and picking on Special is a way to earn my trust?”
“Special?” I said. “That’s Falstaff’s real name?”
“Falstaff?”
“The bartender. How do you get ‘Special’ from that?”
Captain Tony gave that a second then cocked his head. “His parents were riding junk for days after a Kiss concert in 1980—they only played one show in the States that year. ‘Special Engagement,’ they called it. Special came along nine months later.”
“Unmasked Tour,” I said. I didn’t bother to add that it was at a different Palladium, not the one behind us, but the one in New York that NYU tore down to erect a dormitory.
“That’s the one,” Captain Tony said. He nodded in approval, as if we were men at war but had found a common ground. Like Christmas on the Western Front, 1915.
I turned to Garrett. “How do you feel about that? You took advantage of Special.”
“Your move,” Garrett said. His eyes never left the captain.
Captain Tony shrugged. “Let’s go. My orders are to present you.”
“You expecting us?”
“I had a call. We’ll take my car.”
“If it’s all the same,” I told him, “we’ll follow in ours.”
He gave a slight shrug, turned, and strolled over to a pool table. Cue Stick followed, and they started to rack the balls. I glanced at Garrett, who nodded.
“You drive a hard bargain,” I said. “We’ll ride with you, Tony. But I get shotgun.”
Captain Tony turned to face me. “Who’s Tony?”
“You. Got your name right there on your shirt in the event you forget, which is a damn good thing, as you just did.”
He studied me for a few seconds then said, “You like humor, but your friend”—he nodded at Garrett—“he does not smile.”
“We’re all friends.” I took a step closer to him. “After all, we’re going to be in business together.”
“That,” Captain Tony said as he put on a leather jacket—it was already pushing ninety outside—“is not for me to decide. Andiamo. We’re running late.”
I wasn’t surprised they’d expected us. It explained Special’s hostile reaction to Garrett. Randall wasn’t the type to roll that easy. But “andiamo” in a NASCAR joint? I wondered where Captain Tony picked up the Italian word that loosely translated to “Let’s go.”
I rode shotgun. As we rolled over Tampa Bay, the water was calm on my left, or north, and wind ripples scrubbed the surface on my right. I asked Cue Stick, who drove, if he had a wife and kids. I told him I would value his opinion on Florida’s charter school policy. I added that if he could explain charter school funding, it would place him in the top point five percent of the nation’s literate populace. He never spoke, and I replied to his silence that I respected his opinion. We exited the freeway and went through Used Car Alley.
“Certified used cars,” I said. “I don’t get it. Are they guaranteeing that your car isn’t new? Like you don’t know that?”
No one wanted to play. We passed a city bus with a sign on its side of a man tossing a smiling baby into the air. Underneath the grinning nugget was the following in block letters: EVERY BABY IS BORN TO DO SOMETHING GREAT. I’m not so sure about that. We split onto I-4 and took the first exit. We pulled behind a building on East 8th Avenue in Ybor City.
Ybor City is a slice of New Orleans dropped into Tampa. In a different century, it was a bustling Latin quarter famous for cigars, nightlife, and industry that thrived when the sun went down. That gave Ybor City dark roots. Dirty money. Lawless men. Now it houses local breweries, bars, and restaurants. It’s where the past and present collide, like incoming and outgoing tides in a canal. In such places, the water boils and bubbles at the surface, literally not knowing which direction it’s going. Such is Ybor City—yesterday and today, both frothing and aggressively claiming the same moment.
We shut the truck’s doors, and they sounded like miniature hand grenades ripping off within nanoseconds of each other. Captain Tony said, “We’re going to search you. You understand that?” His question was directed at Garrett. I was hurt; he didn’t seem overly concerned with me.
Garrett said, “I’ll give it to you.”
Captain Tony hesitated then replied, “Slowly.”
Garrett reached into his jacket pocket and handed his SIG Sauer to the captain. I handed my Smith & Wesson to the driver and said, “Here you go, little fella.”
“How do we know they don’t have more?” he asked Captain Tony with a scowl that looked more like a pout than a menacing signal.
“You speak,” I said.
“They’re fine,” the captain said.
He spun, and Garrett and I followed him up a back iron staircase that hugged the wall of the brick building, its lumpy, grotesque, thick mortar frozen in place on the day it was formed. Inside the truck, it had been cool, and as we climbed, the humidity pressed down on us, as if with every step we were getting closer to sacrificing ourselves.
CHAPTER 25
“Would you gentlemen like some lunch?” the man behind the desk inquired.
“Anybody above you?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“I specifically indicated that we wished to see the leader. The capo.”
“Yes,” he chuckled. “Capo…I suppose some may view me in that manner.”
We stood in a spacious room. Elegant windows stretched to the tongue-and-groove ceiling where a wood fan rotated with the speed of a tired paddle-wheeler. The planking on the floor was wider than the Mississippi in May. A small picture frame on the credenza behind the desk held a photograph of a beaming young girl with a mountain range behind her. Our host rose from his chair. He was well fed and wore light beige slacks with a short-sleeve, deep-blue silk shirt. A slim gold chain hung around his thick neck. A tightly trimmed mustache, a lighter shade than his hair but a perfect match for his sideburns, hid his upper lip. He would have made a good pitchman for a cruise line that catered to seniors. He sauntered around from the desk and extended his hand.
“Joseph Dangelo.”
“Jake Travis.” I shook his hand. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but never gentle.”
> That garnered a soundtrack laugh. “Likewise, Mr. Travis.” He continued to grasp my hand. “And while I fit the description, and like to believe that I possess more than the necessary amount of desirable attributes, I sincerely doubt I’ve ever been referred to as a leader, and certainly not”—he paused and finally freed my hand—“as ‘capo.’ A signature, I believe, that’s best left in the minds of the romantics.”
Garrett introduced himself, and we all buddied up as if we were getting ready to smack a ball off the first tee. Garrett had to take his hand out of his pocket to shake Dangelo’s hand, and I wondered what it was doing there in the first place. I assumed we would be introduced to someone in the middle of the organization, but Dangelo had the trappings and persona of someone who had graduated from the middle years ago.
“Follow me, if you will,” he said as he strode past us. “The finest restaurant in Ybor is just a short walk.”
Garrett and I fell in line like ducks. Two men in jeans and loose-fitting jackets joined us outside Dangelo’s office. The captain and Cue Stick had vanished, and I assumed they’d passed our hardware to the new tag team. One of our new escorts had a neck the size of my thigh. His sidecar had a peppered goatee and wore honest-to-God wire-rimmed eyeglasses. He also had a brain the size of my left nut. How do I know this? I possess an uncanny ability—a gift, if you must—to make an instant, accurate assessment of people. I’m never in doubt, and rarely right, but that doesn’t stop me from practicing my craft. I labeled our new escorts Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
We walked two short blocks south to the Cubana Grille. The sidewalk was grimy concrete hexagon pavers. A crew across the street was power-washing the surface, but their efforts would only serve to maintain the status quo, for the sidewalks, like those in the French Quarter in New Orleans, were permanently embedded with the revelry of the nightlife. I got a hangover just looking at my feet.
The Cubana Grille was housed in a yellow brick building with a second-floor balcony. Flower boxes spilled green vines over a black wrought-iron rail. A music stand outside the front door displayed the menu.
It was slammed. Dangelo didn’t break stride when he entered but marched past the crowded hostess stand to a vacant rear table. The Tweedle boys took a lonely table by the front door. It was the least desirable table in the restaurant. A downpour erupted as if Poseidon had dumped the oceans upon the earth. A waiter rushed out the front door and brought in the music stand. A platinum blonde—Kelly, if one was to believe the nametag—with an inch-thick line of dark roots that divided her head into two distinct halves, greeted him by name as she placed an iced tea in front of him. She had a square jaw and jittery green eyes. A black apron was wrapped tightly around her midsection like a corset. Dangelo thanked Kelly. She inquired what Garrett and I would like to drink, and we told her.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Dangelo,” I said.
“Please”—he gestured with his left hand—“just call me Joseph.”
Now why couldn’t the police in Iroquois land be like that? Do we really need criminals to teach us that we’re all brothers? I responded, “And Jake to you.”
“Not Jacob?” he asked with a touch of bewilderment.
“Technically yes, but I never use it.”
“A pity. It’s such a strong name with a rich heritage.”
“You come here often?”
“When I’m in Ybor. I also maintain an office in St. Pete. It’s a more convenient location for a string of businesses that we have from Sarasota to Tampa.”
“And what business are those?”
“Making money. What other business is there?”
I decided not to attack on that point. “What do you recommend here?”
“I like the stacked grilled ham with double Swiss on rye with fries. But”—he methodically extracted his silverware from his napkin and placed the black cloth on his lap, an exercise he seemed to take great pleasure in—“I only indulge if I’m eating alone or with someone who isn’t going to tattle to my wife.”
“Your indulgence is safe with us,” I assured him.
“Yes…” He let it hang out there a few beats. “I’m quite sure it is.”
Kelly deposited my iced tea and Garrett’s water—with ice—and took our orders. Grilled ham worked all around. I had a side seat that allowed a partial view of the room. Garrett’s back was to the crowd, and I knew that grated him. I doubted he could sit like that for more than a few minutes. Exposed. Two men behind him. Most likely with guns—ours to boot. Another waiter scurried by. His ears were gauged, and gold rings the size of nickels were inserted in his lobes.
“Excuse me,” Garrett said, and shoved his chair out. He went toward the back, where the restrooms were. I noted the eyes that followed him.
“When did they start doing that?” Dangelo asked.
“Hitting the head?”
“Putting holes in their ears. When did the young start drilling holes in their earlobes? I see it all the time now. I don’t understand it. First they tattoo their bodies, and now this. Like they’re trying to one-up each other in a perverted race to deform their bodies.”
“A millennium or two ago. It’s an ancient custom, even a ritual in some societies.”
“You’d think we’d move on, make progress.”
I leaned in a tad. “Yes, you’d think that about a lot of things, wouldn’t you?”
Dangelo met my gaze. “Tell me, Jacob, what is it you believe that I can do for you?”
Every time I hear that name, I look for my John Deere, a woman with a bonnet, and my seven kids. But I wasn’t going to let Dangelo get under my skin. I asked, “Why did you agree to see us?”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t normally receive a question to my own question.”
“Indulge me.”
He chuckled. “Very good. It’s my understanding that you’re representing associates of ours who are missing some funds they owe us.”
“The Colemans.”
“Their names aren’t familiar to me.”
“Naturally. But if you believe someone owes you money, don’t you take a bat to their knees?”
Dangelo shook his head. “So offensive. We—”
“Save it.”
He paused then continued, “We have reason to believe they’re being honest with us. Again, what is it you think I can do for you?”
“They’ve retained us to negotiate on their behalf.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
I let that rest for a beat then said, “Don’t think what?”
“I don’t think,” Dangelo said as his eyes pierced mine, “that you care about the Colemans, whoever they are. I don’t think they retained—your word, I believe—you to represent them.”
“Why did you agree to see us?” I inquired for the second time.
Dangelo and I went mano a mano in a staring match. “Because,” he said, “I’m missing a considerable amount of money, and you coincidently dropped into my world. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Garrett returned, and Kelly placed our lunches in front of us. I complimented her on keeping the orders straight. She ignored me and smiled at Garrett. The rain had stopped outside, and the sun’s indirect rays illuminated the room as if someone had flipped the switch. I said, “Considering your money, I don’t know who took it or where it is, but I was hoping to arrange a simple quid pro quo—an exchange, in the event that I do locate your missing funds, for something I’m missing.” I studied Dangelo’s face. I was going to take the plunge and would have only a split second to gauge his reaction.
“I’m always receptive to lucrative business arrangements. Exactly what it is that you’re missing?” He hurriedly took a bite out of his sandwich that reduced his outstanding lunch by a quarter. My guess was that he’d been anticipating lunch since 10:00 a.m.
I waited until he was deep into his chew, and then I dove in headfirst. “Jenny Spencer.”
Dangelo paused a barely measurable tick of time then cont
inued with the consumption of his bite. But I knew. And I knew that he knew that I knew. He worked his grilled ham as if he were in a contest in which the slowest person to digest his lunch won. He took a sip of his iced tea. He wiped his mouth with the napkin. “Eight Days a Week” played through the speakers. McCartney was in a car and asked the driver how he was doing. Driver said he was working eight days a week. The former Quarryman liked the phrase. Wrote a song.
Garrett rose partway, kicked around his chair, and sat back down. He now had a partial view of the table that held Dangelo’s bodyguards. I was surprised he’d lasted as long as he had, but I admired his timing. Dangelo paid no attention to Garrett’s offensive move and said, “I don’t know who you’re referring to.”
“That’s right, Joe. You don’t do names, do you?” I buried a french fry in ketchup and stuck it in my mouth. It was salty. Next year, I’ll add “Eat more salty foods” to my resolution list. His eyes tightened, and I decided to back off. I needed him more than he needed me. “I understand,” I started in, “that the Colemans owe you about a hundred and forty-two thousand dollars.”
“Go on.”
“What I don’t follow is why you’d snatch the girl if you’d recovered the money. Therefore, you don’t have the money, nor do the Colemans. But neither side trusts the other and figures the other party will lie about recovering the cash for the opportunity to double their profit. Meanwhile, the last person to talk to the man who stole the money is an unfortunate young lady who’s being passed around like a discarded teapot—as if holding on to her will shed light on which one of you is double-crossing the other.”
Dangelo rolled his tongue inside his upper lip, and his mustache moved like a wooly worm. “Interesting theory,” he said. “First off, I don’t double-cross. Second”—he took his napkin across his mouth—“kidnapping is a federal offense. I have no knowledge of this girl that you’re so passionate about. But if we were to go with your story, oh”—he tilted his head and brought his palms up in front of him—“to indulge each other, you’re correct in one assessment.”