Stuff to die for lam-1

by Don Bruns

  “Stand up, put your hands behind your backs and walk down the stairs. It’s time we get rid of you assholes once and for all.” Rick Fuentes shoved his pistol deep into my ribs and pushed me toward the stairs. He grabbed Angel by the collar and brought him along. “I swear to Christ, Moore, I’m going to kill you myself.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  He shoved me and I stumbled down the steps, landing on my tailbone at the bottom. He kicked my ass and told me to get up.

  “I suppose now isn’t the time to tell you that your son is still alive.”

  Fuentes slashed at me with the barrel of his pistol, and I felt the skin rip on my cheek. I touched it and felt hot blood running down my face.

  “You keep fucking things up. Where’s your partner?”

  “He took off. I have no idea where he went.”

  Fuentes hit me again with the gun. I moved my head with the blow and it wasn’t as severe.

  “Do that again, and I’ll take the gun away from you.”

  He looked at me with wide-open eyes. Angel spun around and looked at me. Fuentes raised the gun and I grabbed it. I don’t know where I got the strength or the courage, but the adrenaline was flowing and I twisted hard, kicking him in the crotch at the same time. Fuentes went into a crouch and let go of the gun. I’ve never shot a pistol before, but I figured there was a first time for everything. I pointed the barrel at him, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger. The explosion was ten times more powerful than I’d imagined and the recoil jarred my shoulder. When I opened my eyes Fuentes was lying on the ground, grabbing his thigh.

  “They heard that for sure, Skip.” Angel had pulled out his gun. It was like the Wild West. “Quick, both of us go in with guns and we’ll get Jackie to safety.”

  “One minute, Angel.”

  “Skip-”

  “Mr. Fuentes. You’re spearheading this revolution?”

  He glowered up at me, holding his thigh, and stemming the flow of blood. Even in the dark I could see the fluid staining his gray slacks.

  “You and your son? There’s got to be a family connection over there. What, your father owned property, a factory?”

  No answer.

  “The finger was to throw Jackie off your trail. Right? Then why did you hire us to see if Vic was at the Cuban Social Club?” I waved the gun menacingly. I tried to appear like they do in the movies, but he didn’t scare easily. He already knew I was a lousy shot.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Just tell me if I’m right. Once we knew about the finger, you had to do your little act for us too-so we’d go back to Jackie and tell her how sad it was that you were being blackmailed with the kidnapping of your son. It really would have been a lot easier if we hadn’t gotten involved.”

  “Skip, let’s go.”

  “One more question, Angel, then we’ll go.” I kneeled down on the ground and in the dim light I could see the grimace of pain on Fuentes’s face. I was just thankful I hadn’t killed him. “What about the list of donors? Come on, tell me what that was all about.”

  He gave me a hateful look. “That was a huge mistake. You were never to have seen that list.”

  “But these people were investing in what they thought was a business venture. They didn’t know about the invasion.”

  Fire leaped from his eyes. “Some of them. And some of them donated to the cause. Some of them knew exactly what they were investing in. And you’re fucking with a very powerful group of people. There will be repercussions. That list was never to have been seen.”

  I thought about some of those names. Huge power players. Politicians, entertainment moguls. Did they know? Did they “donate to the cause”?

  “These people will smash you like a bug. Like the bug that you are. They will hurt all that you love, and take away everything you believe in.”

  Angel grabbed my shoulder. “Don’t listen to the madman.” We ran around the side of the building, past the Buick, past the outside forklift to the side door.

  “Walk fast, as if you know what you’re doing. We hold our guns at our sides, walk to the far wall, tell the guard that she belongs to us, and we take her.”

  If my face didn’t hurt so much I would have laughed. “Angel, they’re killers. It just doesn’t work like that.”

  He put his hand on mine. “Friend, if you believe it will happen, almost always it will happen. Do as I say and you will see the success.”

  Angel pushed the door open and strode in. I followed as closely as possible. Christ, I’d been free and clear three times now, but I kept going back. What the hell was wrong with me? James had said I cared about people and maybe that was it. Or maybe I was just born stupid.

  We were halfway across the floor and no one had said a word. The workers were busy pushing everything into the back of the truck so they could close the door. Big strides, guns by our sides, my face streaked with blood, and it was as if we belonged.

  “We’re here to take the girl.” Angel grabbed her by her shoulder and pushed her toward me.

  “Huh?”

  The guy wasn’t the brightest bulb on the circuit.

  “We’ll take it from here.” Angel walked away.

  “Hey, wait a minute.” The guard shouted.

  I looked over my shoulder, Jackie by my side. The guy had his gun up and was pointing at us. Angel spun and fired. The guard collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  “Run!”

  We did. I grabbed Jackie’s hand and we ran faster than any of us had ever run before. Out the door, through the parking lot, and down the block. The sirens were screaming as we screeched to a halt at the pine grove. Police car after police car, horns honking, sirens wailing, came racing to the warehouse.

  “I called in the address before I shot the CIA agent,” Angel said.

  “So you had all of this in hand?”

  “Not everything. Obviously you played a big part.”

  He opened the Jeep and James was lying where we’d positioned him, breathing deeply. I heaved a sigh of relief.

  Jackie stepped in and sat by his head, stroked the matted hair, and talked softly to him.

  “We’re going to the closest hospital.” Angel started the Jeep. “I think our friend needs a checkup.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  They didn’t say how long he’d be in, so I left at one thirty. As I walked into the apartment, “Born in the USA” blared from my pocket. Two in the morning.

  “Em. Boy do I have a story for you.”

  “Skip, I’ve got one for you too.”

  I went into the bathroom and examined the dressing they’d put on my face. A long strip of gauze covered the hideous gash from Fuentes’s gun.

  “Skip, I saw the doctor today, well, yesterday.”

  “Oh. I thought it was-”

  “I went. You need to know.”

  “What? I need to know what?”

  “I lost the baby. Or, the baby was never totally there. It’s called a blighted ovum. It makes no difference. We’re not having a baby.”

  I had nothing to say. Neither did she. We spent a minute not talking to each other.

  “Em, I’m sorry. I’d gotten used to the idea.”

  “Me too. Lots of ups and downs.” She sounded like she was ready to choke.

  “God, I hope you’re okay with this.”

  “I made a decision.”

  “What?”

  “I’m taking some time off.”

  Time off? “A couple of days?”

  “Months.”

  I lost my breath. “How many?”

  “Two, six, I don’t know. I told Dad-”

  “About-”

  “No. He doesn’t have a clue. I told him I needed some time. If you want to stay at the condo once in a while you could keep an eye on it for me and-” she was crying.

  “Em, where are you going? God, I don’t want you to leave for months. Do you know how much I love you?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “And still you’r
e leaving for months.”

  “I am, Skip. I have to. I’ll call.” And she was gone.

  I lay awake most of the night, getting up at eight and calling Sammy.

  “Sam, I had a rough night. I won’t be in today.”

  He cleared his throat and I could tell he was pissed. “Skip, did you tell somebody they won the hot tub? What the hell are you doing giving out my private cell phone number. You know better than to-” I hung up the phone, grabbed a beer, and lay down on the couch, flipping on the television. My face was itching like crazy under the gauze.

  Maybe it was too early and they didn’t have the entire story or maybe the entire story was never going to be told, but the only news mention of the warehouse incident was that police had been called and found some illegal firearms. I guess that’s accurate. There could have been some murders committed and thank God that didn’t happen. There was no mention of a dead CIA agent.

  I thought about going to the authorities. But what authorities? I wasn’t sure whom to trust and, unless our names came up in the investigation, I figured we were better off sitting on the sideline.

  Em was leaving, James was going to be out of it for a while, and it seemed to me that maybe I had some serious growing up to do. Somehow I should be taking a life lesson from this entire experience, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it was.

  About nine I wandered out to the cement slab, sipping on my second beer of the morning.

  I glanced at the playpen behind the apartment and did a double take. A little black boy was sitting on the mat, grabbing at a plastic yellow duck. The patio door opened and the old man stepped out. He nodded.

  “This is my grandson, Jason.” Very matter of fact. Like the little kid had been there for months.

  I nodded back. He picked the boy up, grabbed the blue blanket, and walked back into the apartment. I took a deep swallow for myself, then one for James.

  I called the police and reported the truck stolen. They called back and informed me they’d found it and were holding it for evidence. I could pick it up in a week or two. And, I visited the hospital for three days straight, but James was never awake. I’d sit for an hour then leave. They’d seriously medicated him for the pain.

  I thought about going back to work but hadn’t made the effort. It seemed easier to sleep late, drink beer, and feel sorry for myself. I drove by Gas and Grocery a couple of times, but the old lady said Angel had disappeared. All I know is he was more than just a casual bystander. By the third day, the story had also disappeared from TV, radio, and the newspaper.

  I called Jackie. Maybe twenty times. She never answered, and after three days her number was disconnected. And then our apartment phone started ringing two or three times a day, but no one was ever there when I answered, and when I tried to get the number, it was blocked. I kept hoping it was Em, but with my luck it was one of the big money guys trying to scare me for ruining their invasion. It worked. I was a little frightened.

  But, I’ve got my backup. I copied the list of donors and put it in a spot that no one will ever find. Then I sent a letter-you know how that works, a letter to an attorney that says, “In the event of my untimely demise, please find the following information, etc.” I felt stupid when I did it. I don’t feel so stupid now. I’m not going to say a thing to you or anyone else, but trust me, there were some huge names on that list.

  The fourth day, three o’clock in the morning, my cell phone went off and I grabbed it during the first two notes. “James?”

  His voice was gravely, like he’d been coughing. “I’m s’posed to be resting, pard. But I needed to thank you for savin’ my life. Remember?”

  “Yeah. I remember. I found out that saving someone’s life doesn’t necessarily mean much.”

  “It does to me.” He was quiet, like he’d drifted off to sleep.

  I smiled. He was still on medication. Slurring his words, sort of drifting in and out.

  “Skip?”

  “Yeah, James.”

  “We’re gonna make it big. You wait ’n’ see.”

  “Yeah, James.”

  “Skip?”

  “James?”

  “’Member that Cadillac my dad never drove?”

  “I remember.”

  “I’m gonna get one, and I’m gonna drive it for the old man. We’re gonna make enough money to get a big Cadillac and drive it downtown Miami.”

  “I’ll be by your side, James.”

  “Gonna happen, pardner. You have my word on that.”

  “Your word. Got it.”

  He was quiet for a moment. Then, “All I got is my word and my balls, and I don’t break them for nobody.”

  “Al Pacino, Scarface.”

  “Hold down the fort, amigo. I’ll be home soon.”

  EPILOGUE

  The body of agent Salvidor Santori, a Cuban-American CIA operative, was found on the roof of the Colony Hotel in South Beach six days after our bizarre incident at the warehouse on the Miami River. He’d been shot in the face, but the bullet stayed in his skull.

  Several weeks later I caught a blurb in the Miami Herald. It mentioned that a government employee named Mark Spense had been found shot to death. The story went on to say that the bullet seemed to be of the same caliber and from the same gun that killed Salvidor Santori. That’s all I ever saw. There’s been no more news about the killings.

  I know who killed Agent Mark Spense, just before he was about to throw three of us in the Miami River. I can only assume that the same person killed Santori.

  It’s been over a month and no word from Em. I keep hoping I’ll hear from her, but she has a lot to work through.

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