The Blue Tango Salvage: Book 2 in the Recovery and Marine Salvage, Inc. Series

by Chris Poindexter

  “What are you doing?” I said louder than I would normally talk because our ears were still ringing.

  “Getting us a ride,” he informed me. I was running through a list of people he knew in Miami and it was a short list. If Deek was still alive he was already gone and had kicked off the routine that wiped the data from our servers before he left. On an A1A it was everyone for themselves.

  “This way, he said, taking a turn back toward the main drag. “Cover this for me,” he said, nodding to the scratch on his arm.

  I had a flat roll of bandage in my pocket medical kit and wrapped the wound as best I could. It was messy but not life threatening, an easy fix if we made it out of here.

  “Here we go,” he said as a car pulled up and we climbed in the back seat. Without a word the driver headed down the street and turned west.

  I kept looking at the driver, a nicely dressed young man in his late 20s, and at Q, who said nothing to the driver but merely occupied himself with his phone. After a few minutes it became apparent that we were headed for the transit center at the Golden Glades Tri-Rail station. It was an area I tended to avoid because the station looked more like a minimum security prison and it was in a really crappy part of town. Still, Q and the driver had not said a word to one another. The scene was made all the more surreal by the gentle classical music coming from the car stereo.

  We pulled up to the train station, Q and I got out and the car drove away.

  “Okay, what the fuck was that?” I asked.

  “Ride sharing,” Q informed me as we made our way up the steps to the fence-covered walkway that ran over to the Tri-Rail platform.

  “What?”

  “If you need a lift, you just call up this app on the phone and anyone with a car who wants to make a few extra bucks comes by and picks you up.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Pretty much. The company takes a cut of the fare which is charged automatically to our credit cards.”

  “Do we own that company?” I asked.

  Q thought about that for a moment. “We might own part of it,” he concluded, “but we don’t own all of it.”

  “We should buy it,” I suggested, starting down the steps to the train platform.

  Q chuckled. “It’s kind of a big company,” he informed me.

  “You type in where you want to go and someone just shows up to get you?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s the goddamndest thing,” I marveled.

  “That it is,” Q agreed. We stopped at the ticket machine and bought our train tickets.

  Chapter 10

  It was a risk taking Tri-Rail when the cops might be looking for us but I figured it would take them at least an hour to collect statements, figure out what happened and start putting out BOLOs. We should be able to make it to West Palm and pick up one of the cars we had stashed for just this kind of emergency. Where we’d go after that I still had no idea. We were lucky that the northbound train pulled into the station just a few minutes later.

  Tri-Rail was one of the few things transportation related in Florida that actually worked and the state government hadn’t managed to screw up or outsource to a campaign donor who would then suck all the value out of it. The trip to West Palm took a little over an hour and we sat in the seats under the surveillance camera, trying to keep a low profile. The roving conductor/security person checked our tickets without a second glance.

  It was still a relief to get to West Palm. We left our phones on the train and walked to the garage, which was conveniently located just across the street and down the block in the parking garage of an apartment building. These cars had keypad entry and Q entered the code and unlocked it. In the trunk we found the keys, a change of clothes, clean IDs, a wad of cash and enough food and water for three days. It was great to be out of Miami, but with the cooperation from local law enforcement agencies and the marvel of facial recognition software it wouldn’t be long before they traced us to West Palm. We had to keep moving.

  “Any idea where you want to go?” Q asked, handing me a baseball hat that would at least conceal our faces from traffic cameras.

  “Let’s go see Teddy,” I suggested.

  “Central Florida,” he grumbled.

  “Come on, it’ll be a chance for you to practice speaking redneck.”

  “Be fun to go shoot a hog,” Q decided. One of the great sports in central Florida was hunting wild pigs.

  We went north on I-95, opting to steer clear of the toll way, got off on 45th and made our way down Military Trail to MLK which took us northwest past the North Palm Beach county airport and through Indiantown on toward Okeechobee. People who visit Florida usually spend the bulk of their time near the coast and Central Florida is so different from the coastal areas it could be on a different planet. It’s always a surprise how fast civilization falls away when you drive west. Once you get past the VA Medical Center just off MLK in Riviera Beach, a scant five miles from the ocean, you’re at the hairy fringe of civilized Florida. Development gives way to some of the roughest, least populated areas in the state. Instead of sand and salt air, Florida away from the coast is scrub brush, craggy looking pine trees and palmetto.

  The monotonous terrain rolled on mile after mile until we got to state highway 70 West. Just past the Kissimmee River we came up on a redneck paradise called Behr Creek. From the outside it looked pretty much like any other trailer park in Florida, though the perceptive viewer might notice the landscaping is a little nicer and generally neatly organized. The park was on the north side of the highway and divided into two parts. Closest to the road was the family side and a long, narrow central road connected that to the single side of the park. In between was a park-like playground area for the kids and several community buildings where the park would have regular cookouts and community events, including live music every weekend. Each side had its own pool, recreation center and governing committee. The only hard and fast rule was that kids weren’t allowed on the adult side of the park, ever, and there was a very good reason for that.

  We pulled into the long driveway late in the afternoon. The sign said Behr Creek - A managed housing community. Underneath it listed Theodore Behr as the proprietor. With a name like that it was almost a given his nickname would be “Teddy Bear” and that was true for most of his life. Today, though, only a select few called him Teddy, with most people choosing “Mr. Behr”, “Mr. T” or “sir” depending on the circumstances. I used to joke with Teddy that he was the only Jewish redneck I’d ever known.

  When you pulled into the park you might start to notice there was nothing typical about this trailer park. The lawns were lush and neatly trimmed. There were no rusting cars in the driveway, no houses with kid toys strewn around the lawn and no window A/C units or sagging porches. There were a lot of trees, a mix of hardwoods and pine trees typical to central Florida, that blended together to provide a lot of shade from the brutal heat in a part of the state that was a long way from the temperature modulating effects of the ocean. Well maintained cars were neatly parked under sturdy car ports and the driveway was far enough back from the highway so that none of the houses were particularly close to the road with a line of tall, narrow hedges blocking both the wind and road noise. A sturdy looking shelter near the road with a small central A/C unit and outside lights marked where the kids waited for the school bus.

  We pulled into the parking lot which was empty save for two golf carts and a white Mercedes SUV. We parked in the space marked VISITOR in big white letters. The office reminded me of one of those rustic breakfast places near the highway with a wide porch and several rocking chairs that bode a country welcome. The inside was rustic but comfortable and tastefully decorated. A single dark-haired young lady manned the desk.

  “Can I help you?” she asked brightly.

  Before I could answer a loud female voice boomed “OH MY STARS!” from the small office off to the left of the desk. A moment later out bounded a 5’ 4 inch blonde haired, b
lue eyed package of Alabama dynamite named Flower Nash. In her early 30s she was dressed in pink slacks and a short-sleeve white sweater top that was just short enough to let her wondrously flat tummy peek out, showing off a small blue diamond in her belly button. Her boobs got through the door a good five seconds before the rest of her; a bosom that was either the envy or desire of most everyone in the county.

  She still had the bounce that had earned her a spot as one of the Alabama Crimson Tide cheerleaders. Her parents were products of the late 60s and early 70s which accounted for her unusual first name.

  “Look what the cat dragged in and the dog was too proud to eat,” she drawled, giving me a big neck hug and kiss on the cheek. “And Mr. Q.”

  I couldn’t help noticing Q got more of a full frontal boob hug than I got. It was no secret Flower always thought Q was cute, once referring to him as my yummy friend. All this was, of course, completely lost on Q who had a blind spot when it came to women. Not that it would make any difference, Flower and Teddy had been together as long as I’d known either of them. If Teddy was king, then Flower was the Hand and Will of the king and ran the park with the authority of a benign dictator.

  “So what brings our prodigal sons back to the fold?” she asked.

  “We had to...leave town suddenly,” I admitted.

  “Oh,” she said, turning serious. “Anyone know you’re here?”

  “Don’t think so,” I said honestly.

  “Well, let’s just keep it that way,” she beamed, “then we can have you two boys all to ourselves.”

  “Sandi,” she said to the girl behind the desk. “Call the shop and tell the boys that Mr. Fatman’s car needs to be cleaned...and make it the special service.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” she said immediately.

  “And set our guests up in 14 and 15 on the north side but don’t sign them in, just mark the units off for maintenance.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” she said, turning to pull two sets of keys off the pegboard behind her and handing them over to Flower.

  “And, Sandi, anything these gentlemen need, any time of the day or night…” she let the comment trail off.

  “Yes, Miss Flower,” she smiled.

  “Alright then,” Flower beamed, turning back to us, “let’s get you boys settled. Teddy’s out fishing with the mayor and the sheriff,” she informed us. “That usually ends up being equal parts fishing, drinking and poker so it may be late before he gets back.”

  Q gave Sandi our car keys and we followed Flower out to the big golf cart parked next to the office while she gave us a stream of consciousness update on what was new at the park since our last visit. We passed through the formidable gate to the living area that dropped into a recessed enclosure, all set in cement behind two sets of steel bollards. You might be able to get a fully loaded MWRAP through that gate, if you hit it just right, but it would stop anything short of a tank.

  As we made our way through the twists and turns of the main drag it was like being in a parade. Everyone waved at Flower, anyone outside would say hello and she would say hi back, always by name, and barely taking a breath between that and picking up the story she was telling us without missing a beat. We learned everything worth knowing about anybody’s business on the drive. This house was expecting a new baby, that one someone had suffered a bout of pneumonia. Every street, every house, every family was in Flower’s mental database. The East German Stasi in their day had nothing on her. These were her people and she knew the details of their lives intimately.

  We got to the edge of the playground when she said, “What in the hell?” and cranked the golf cart across the neatly manicured lawn toward a small knot of kids. As we got closer we could see one of the big kids sitting on a smaller one. He wasn’t hitting him, just holding him down.

  “Just a minute,” she said, locking the brake on the golf cart and setting off on foot after the offending child. The smaller kids saw her coming first and we got to witness a fascinating social dynamic that spoke volumes about life in the park.

  The little kids wanted to let Miss Flower know straight off they had nothing to do with what was going on but they still stepped back out of the way. She breezed by them and grabbed the big boy, who had his back turned to us, and lifted him off the other kid as easily as lifting her Coach purse off the counter at Tiffany’s. The big kid was maybe 14 or 15, red faced from exertion and, even though he was already head and shoulders taller than Flower, he suddenly looked terrified, stammering an explanation we were too far away to hear. He kept gesturing at a nearby bicycle, so we guessed that played some part in the altercation.

  Flower had her hands on her hips and it was pretty clear she wasn’t buying whatever excuse he was peddling. When she started talking she would punctuate whatever she was saying with her finger in his chest.

  “Uh-oh, he’s getting the accusing finger of shame,” Q observed.

  “Glad I’m not him,” I agreed.

  She dusted off the other boy and asked if he was alright, then sent them all on their way. One or two of the younger ones stopped her for a hug, which she obliged and one wanted to show off her new shoes. She dropped down to their level on one knee, listened patiently, then told them she had company and needed to go. Satisfied they had their audience with the queen, they departed.

  “Good lord,” she breathed, wheeling the golf cart back toward the road. “Bobby Taylor, I swear that boy doesn’t have the sense God gave a rubber goose. Teddy says he’s destined for a career in law enforcement.”

  “I’m surprised you never wanted any for yourself,” I teased.

  “Oh, heavens no,” she said with a dismissive wave. “And mess up this work of art,” she said patting her tummy. “Not a chance. Besides, we have 27 children on the family side of the park and all their parents said I can have one whenever I like. So, if I am feeling motherly, I can borrow one or two, stuff them with ice cream down at the drive-in and send them back home on a sugar high.”

  Q and I got a laugh out of that. Flower’s boundless energy and ability to handle shit was just the lift we needed after a rough day. I was suddenly worried about Amber.

  “So, what’s new with you?” Flower asked. “I’ve been running my mouth the entire time and you haven’t been able to get a word in edgewise.”

  “He’s worried about his girlfriend,” Q blabbed.

  “Girlfriend?!” Flower pounced. “Oh, do tell.”

  “Q has one, too,” I snitched. One good rat deserves another. “She’s a vet.”

  “We’re not really dating,” Q clarified. “It’s complicated.”

  “Oh, my word, that’s wonderful! And what about yours?” she asked me.

  “She’s an employee,” Mr. Snitchy said from the back seat.

  I scowled at Q who studiously ignored it. “It’s complicated,” I said, not being able to think of what else to say.

  “Well, aren’t you boys just the kings of complicated relationships,” she observed. “Complicated or not I think it’s wonderful, for both of you. Even if you are sleeping with the help,” she said to me, punctuating the comment with a swat on my leg.

  There was another gate to the singles side of the park and an unusually sturdy fence. That’s because hidden under the neatly manicured streets were a series of interconnected tunnels where Teddy grew some of the best weed in all of Florida. It was, in fact, the company business that built this entire park and everyone who lived here was involved, in one way or another, in that enterprise.

  The people who lived at the park were no accident, either. Instead of spending his money lavishly on himself, how most people in the business get caught, Teddy spread the money around. Like us he used the cash to start and run a series of small businesses in town. Also like us he paid extremely well and provided his employees with health care, a liberal time off policy and educational benefits. Teddy used those mostly legitimate businesses to screen people to eventually go to work in what they called “the fields” which were actually the tunnels un
der the north end of the park.

  Everything about the park was designed to hide the sophisticated tunnels under our very feet. Trees and bushes hid the vents needed to circulate air through the tunnels and simulate wind, without which the plants didn’t grow properly. Teddy regularly inspected the park from the air, including the use of thermal cameras, to make sure nothing about the park showed the slightest hint of anything out of place to anyone who might be watching. The park ran its own low voltage power distribution system so there was never a problem having enough electricity to run the very efficient LED grow lights. To keep the average load within specs for the number of homes, several had arrays of solar panels built into the roof and large battery banks behind the trailer skirting smoothed out the load.

  Everything about the care of the plants was automated -from the temperature and humidity to the amount of water they received. The weed that Teddy grew was legendary, sporting a THC content of nearly 23 percent.