Stuff to die for lam-1

by Don Bruns

  “Obviously we’ve had some confrontations in the last several days that have come to no resolution. I am suggesting that you turn over whatever mail you have and we will stop any aggressive action.”

  Did they think we still had the finger? And what would happen if they found out we didn’t have it? Everything was a blur in my mind.

  “Mr. Moore?”

  “I’m here. Can I think this through?”

  “No. I need an answer.”

  My head was clearing by the second. I saw movement in the doorway and James stood there, in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, rubbing his eyes.

  “What is it, man?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Carlos.”

  “Carlos, my partner is here and we need to talk. Call me back in ten minutes.” I hung up the phone.

  “Whoa!” James had snapped back much quicker than I had. “They want the mail? We don’t have the fucking mail.”

  “Well, James, that’s not entirely true.”

  “One envelope out of two boxes of mail-come on. That could have just fallen out by mistake.”

  “It’s a little too early in the morning for me to figure all this out.”

  We’d talked until one thirty in the morning, sitting outside on the slab, smoking cigarettes, and getting loose on cheap beer. I kept staring at the building behind us, and the playpen. Two old people praying for a chance to be with their first grandchild, and me, praying that maybe there was a mistake and Em really wasn’t pregnant. One thirty in the morning I’d gone to bed, and it was now three thirty. I’m a growing boy. I need a lot more sleep than that.

  “I’m having a tough time putting it all together, James.”

  “Yeah. You’ve got a full plate, partner. I say we call Rick Fuentes. Tell him that as far as we know he got all the mail we had. Ask him what we should do. Or, we could just tell your pal Carlos to stop by Fuentes’s condo and get it for himself.” James looked at me, then glanced at my cell phone. Obviously he didn’t want to call the man at three thirty in the morning. I sat on the edge of the bed and made the call. The machine picked up.

  “Rick Fuentes, this is Skip Moore. We just got a phone call from the two guys who threatened us and, by the way, almost killed us on the way home from your place. They say that if we give them your mail, they’ll go away and leave us alone. You’ve got the mail, Mr. Fuentes. Should we just tell them to deal with you?”

  I had this thought that maybe I should have just kept quiet. Once the two Cubans had the mail, all of us were expendable. If they wanted to get rid of everyone who knew about their plans, they’d have to eliminate all of us-including Angel and Emily.

  “I need to hear from you in the next ten minutes. It’s,” I struggled to read the alarm clock, “three thirty-eight in the morning.”

  I hung up and we waited. James paced and I sat on the bed, thinking for a couple of seconds about actually having a kid, then thinking about how much trouble we were in. Back and forth. Would she even want to discuss marriage? Would these guys actually try to kill all of us because we knew about the plot to overthrow Castro?

  Finally, James sat down on an old wooden trunk that I used as a closet and cupboard. “If they get all of that mail, they may kill us.”

  “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. And some other things as well.”

  “My old man, he had fifteen different businesses. That’s just fifteen that I knew about.”

  “And?”

  “I never heard of one of them leading to murder. Or even the threat of murder.”

  “Well, he never had a trucking company. Pretty rough business.”

  “Yeah.”

  “James, I think we should just tell Carlos that we don’t have the stuff. That’s all. We don’t have it. What can they do about that?”

  “We don’t have it.”

  “Yeah. We don’t have most of it, but they’re liable to stop over here and find out for sure.” I looked at my watch. “I’ll call Fuentes one more time. If he’s not there, we’ll have to tell this guy that Fuentes has it.” I dialed his number and got his answering machine one more time.

  “We can’t wait any longer.” James was pacing again. “If they call back and we don’t have an answer-”

  “They’re liable to come over here.”

  “Shit. Why won’t Fuentes call back?”

  Off the charger, “Born in the USA” blared from the little flip phone. “Hello?”

  “Skip?”

  “Em.” I found myself short of breath. “I… I am so, so sorry about this afternoon. There was no excuse for that response. I mean, you just shocked me and I-”

  “No. I’m sorry. I planned how I wanted to tell you, and, and it just didn’t come out right at all. I didn’t mean to walk away. I’ve been an emotional wreck, and-” the receiver beeped. Somebody else was calling in.

  “Em, I am so sorry. I’ve got to take this call.”

  “At four in the morning? Come on, Skip. Look, if you don’t want to talk, fine.”

  The line went dead. I hit the green button. “Hello?”

  “Eugene? This is Carlos. Do we get the mail?”

  “Carlos.” I let out a slow breath. Em had called and wanted to talk, and here I am dealing with a life and death situation. I guess Em’s situation is life and death too. “We don’t have it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, I’m leveling with you.”

  “Would you care to tell me where it is?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to put Fuentes in more danger, but this was his battle. And, it was his mail. “Rick Fuentes has it.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Carlos?”

  “Rick Fuentes has all of it?”

  “We took it up to him the night you tried to run us off the road.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Mr. Moore. You have the list of donors for Cafe Cubana. I want it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  JAMES STARED AT ME, his jaw slack. “He said he knew we had the donor list?”

  “Why would I make that up, James?”

  “How the fuck does he know?”

  There were two ways. “One, they were parked nearby and saw us when we took the envelope out of the box and tossed it back in the truck.”

  “Possible. We know they tried to get by the gate.”

  “Number two, they did get by the gate and took the mail from Fuentes. Once they went through everything in those two boxes, they realized the donor list was missing.”

  “Shit. What do we do, Skip? That donor list was extensive. And potentially damaging.”

  “They’re going to get it somehow.”

  “They’re calling back in-” the phone started it’s raucous music.

  “Carlos?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve decided to give you the list. Why don’t you give me your number, and we’ll set up a time and place where you can pick it up.”

  He was quiet for a moment, but I could hear him breathing. Then he must have put his hand over the mouthpiece and I could hear his muffled voice talking to someone.

  He came back on line. “Do you think I am a stupid fuck, Eugene?”

  “No.”

  “Eugene, you couldn’t trace this number if you tried, and I am obviously not going to give you my phone number. I want the list tomorrow night. And I want you to leave it in the trash can that sits outside the Denny’s across the street from your apartment. We don’t have to meet each other any more, see each other anymore, or threaten each other with guns. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Put the envelope in a plastic garbage bag. Drop it in the trash can around eight tomorrow night. It’s that simple. And Eugune?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t make copies. No copies. It had better all be there. I know what I’m looking for and if it’s not there, I’ll start cutting toes and ears off your high school classmate. Got it?”

  I got it.
r />   CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  T HAT damned field trip. Vic was my trip buddy, but there were a lot of things to do, a lot of people to see, and simply being buddies didn’t mean that you were chained together. It was just a way for one teacher and one chaperone to leverage a little more supervision. So, we weren’t together the whole time. Should have been, but we weren’t. And when Vic wasn’t around, I figured that he was off with Cramer and Stowe, the goon squad.

  It was a park, and we were doing some nature things. God knows, I couldn’t remember most of it if I tried, but there was a sinkhole about forty feet deep at the edge of the property. It was surrounded with yellow tape with signs warning us to stay back. For most of the kids, you didn’t need the sign. I remember everything about the sinkhole. Everything.

  Mrs. Marlow explained how the limestone deposits had built up and eroded and she went through the story about how sinkholes came to be. This particular one had swallowed a garage and two cars. Pretty impressive to a seventh grader. And as long as someone didn’t go to the actual edge of the sinkhole, as long as someone stood back maybe a couple of feet behind the yellow tape, what danger could there be?

  My trip buddy was nowhere around and I really wanted to see if you could still view the garage or the two cars. The story was that nothing had ever been brought back to the surface. So I worked my way over to the yellow tape, and seeing no one who would stop me, I ducked under the yellow plastic and walked up to the sinkhole, leaning forward and peering into the craggy depths of the pit.

  When I felt the pressure on my back, the hard shove, I started to turn, but it was too late. I staggered forward as the ground crumbled under my feet. I can still feel the breathless rush of fear that gripped my midsection. My heart seemed to stop and my stomach rolled in wild turmoil. Feeling my body dropping with the soft earth, I think I screamed and turned in midair, grasping at what remained of the dirt, clawing at it with my skinny fingers. Somehow I hung on. About two feet down. The earth I was clinging to was soft and I could sense it was only a matter of time before it gave way and I would plummet to the bottom of the forty-foot chasm.

  I looked up, hoping to see a sign of rescue. Instead, I saw Justin Cramer and Mike Stowe looking down. As I remember, not with glee on their faces. I actually believe I saw raw fear, and it was totally clear to me what had happened. They’d pushed me, for no apparent reason and now were petrified that they’d be found out or possibly they realized they’d finally crossed a line. They had attempted murder.

  I screamed again, the cavern soaking up the sound. I watched them turn and run and I felt the fine silt of the earth slowly erode under my fingertips.

  And then, there was Vic. When he called my name and I looked up, he was already on his belly, inching forward with his hands outstretched. He reached down, telling me everything was going to be all right. To this day, I can still feel the pain in my knuckles, the cramps in my hands from grasping the dark brown dirt.

  Slowly, he reached down as his shoulders and chest cleared the opening. I should have prayed that he didn’t fall as well, but all I could do was pray for myself. He wasn’t just saving my life, he was putting his life on the line and there’s a difference. A big difference. Finally, he reached my wrist and he pulled, breaking my grip and holding my entire weight with one hand. He worked his way back, pulling me with him until he was able to reach down with his second hand and haul me out. How he managed it, I’ll never know, but we were both shaking when I reached the surface.

  “Vic.”

  He was breathing deeply, and he looked into my eyes and shook his head. “Don’t ever tell anyone about this. Ever. Don’t tell them how it happened, and don’t ever tell them how you got out. Don’t, Skip. Just don’t.”

  I called Emily three times. She didn’t answer the first two times. The third time she picked up.

  “What?”

  “That call was serious. The guys who tried to kill us were on the phone. They want the rest of the mail by tomorrow night or they’re going to start chopping off more of Vic’s body parts.”

  “Oh, my God. You still have some of that?”

  “And we were trying to call Fuentes and see what his reaction was and you were on the-” the phone beeped.

  “Jesus! Em, it’s ringing again. I’ve got to get this, but can we talk tomorrow? Please? We need a serious face-to-face. Em?”

  “Take your call. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She sounded defeated. I’d had one night to consider her earthshaking news. She’d obviously been grappling with the information for a much longer time.

  I punched the green button. “Hello?”

  “This is Rick Fuentes.”

  “Rick… Mr. Fuentes, since we left your place the other night a lot of things have happened. Let me start at the beginning.”

  I did. I even told him about the Cafe Cubana list falling out of the box and accidentally still being in our truck. And by the time I was done, I was exhausted. James sat on the trunk and kept shaking his head as if he was reliving all the highlights.

  Fuentes was quiet on the other end of the line. I assumed he was absorbing the information.

  Finally, “Mr. Moore, the two men you refer to did stop by here. They have my son, and until I am certain that Victor is alive and well-until I am certain he will return to me, I must do what they tell me. They asked for the list. Apparently you had it when they met you at the storage unit.” He was quiet, waiting for my response.

  “Yeah, maybe.” God I hate getting caught in a lie.

  “They picked and sorted through the mail, but the list wasn’t there. I convinced them I was not aware of its whereabouts. Apparently they knew where to look.”

  “Yeah. Well, do you want it back or should we-”

  “I asked you to walk away from this situation for Victor’s sake. Please, Mr. Moore. Deliver the envelope as they have asked and then just go away. You’ve done all you need to do.” And then he said something I found very strange, but very true. “You know, if Jackie had opened my mail you wouldn’t even be involved in this. She was supposed to open the fucking mail.”

  I thought about that for a moment. He was right. If the wife had opened the mail, she would have found the finger. That probably should have happened, but Jackie never opened any of his mail. She would have seen the list of donors. God, I wish she had. We’d be oblivious to this entire situation.

  “Are you surprised she didn’t open your mail?”

  “Yes. Actually, somewhat disappointed that she didn’t,” he paused, “and that you did. I asked her to open it. I asked her to please open anything that came to our… her house, but that’s not the point here. Give them the list and walk away. I can’t have your blood on my hands.”

  I glanced at James, who was chewing on a fingernail. He gave me a look of exasperation.

  “We’ll make the drop tomorrow at eight o’clock.”

  “You don’t want to go any further with these men, Mr. Moore. Trust me. Please, for Victor’s sake, leave it alone. I’ll let you know when everything is settled.” He hung up the phone.

  For Victor’s sake. I couldn’t put him at risk. I glanced at my two hands, thinking about having a finger amputated. Crudely amputated. A ring finger.

  “We’re going to drop off the envelope in the trash can at Denny’s.”

  “And that’s it?” James seemed relieved.

  I thought about it. I thought about the fact that I was still around to think about it. And if it hadn’t been for Vic putting his life on the line-

  “No. That’s not it. We’re going to follow these guys and see where Vic is.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind. You’re a madman, Skip.”

  “You said it yourself, James. Once they get everything they want, they could kill us. I want to know who they are, where they are, and where Vic is.

  “Skip! We could get killed. Vic could get killed.”

  “Yeah, but we’re not going to get free of this until we find out where he is.”


  It wasn’t just saving a life, it was putting a life on the line and there’s the difference.

  There was no other choice. “I’m going to try to get some sleep.” Who was I kidding. I lay there for half an hour and finally got up and made a cup of weak coffee. I watched the sun creep over the horizon and cast its bold red rays into the cloudy sky. Red sky. My father had taught me a saying from his Navy days.

  Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.

  Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I turned on the television at six and watched the first news of the day. I’d started to doze off when I heard the announcer mention the fire.

  “Late last night, fire investigators announced that they had uncovered the identity of one of the bodies found in the explosion and fire in Little Havana.”

  I held a breath.

  “They have positively identified Juan Sistaro, a Miami grocer, through his dental records. The identity of the second victim has not been discovered, but investigators say that the body has some unique physical characteristics.”

  I sat up on the couch and shook the cobwebs from my head.

  “It appears that the ring finger on his left hand is missing. Medical examiners were not certain whether the digit had been severed recently or sometime in the past. Both bodies were burned beyond recognition.”

  I remember shivering. It was seventy-eight degrees already, and I was shivering like it was below freezing.

  “The deaths appear to be the result of a major explosion at the Cuban Social Club, a club that-”

  I shut the television off and stood up. The death? Vic was dead? The thought paralyzed me. I stood there staring at the blank screen for at least a minute, then went back to James’s bedroom and shook him.

  Finally he gained consciousness.

  “What the hell?”

  I couldn’t say it.

  “Skip, what the hell did you wake me up for? It’s… for crying out loud it’s six fifteen in the morning. Why do you do this to me?”

  “It’s Vic.”