In any event, either their relationship was strong or the wailing was too much, because Redhead pulled my SUV back to let Baldy drop to the ground. As he did that, I pulled out my cell phone and made a call.
“Office of the State Attorney,” said a voice I didn’t know, but bet all the palm trees in the city belonged to a cute paralegal.
“This is Miami Jones. Tell Edwards there are armed men shooting up the parking lot right under his window.”
I hung up. I didn’t want to chat, and if I needed to explain, then I was done for anyway. But I knew Eric, or at least I thought I did. He was one of those state attorneys, the kind with higher political aspirations, whose popularity rose and fell with the crime rate. And one thing a crime-fighting state attorney doesn’t want is gunplay in the parking lot outside his building. I dropped to my belly and looked across the asphalt. There was close to no clearance under the Ferrari, which added to its attraction as a hiding spot, but made it hard to see the feet of the thug coming to get me. I was pretty confident Baldy wasn’t going anywhere. But as I watched, I saw boots that I assumed belonged to Redhead edging past a car in the row between us. The boots got to the row at the front of the Ferrari and moved along toward a line of trucks. When I’m right, I’m right. I crept like a lizard along the side of the Ferrari, keeping the stallion between me and that gun. Redhead’s boots jumped to the back of the row of trucks, surprise, then spun around the other way. Finding nothing, he started moving back in my direction. He was two pickups away from me when I heard the footsteps. Running. Multiple hard-soled shoes on pavement. I heard the footsteps break ranks and head in at least two directions. Then I heard them slow, showing caution. No one with a brain runs full speed into gunplay, even the brave ones. Turning up at all was brave enough. I figured it was time for all or nothing.
I stuck my head out the back of the Ferrari.
“Hey, go Yankees!” I whispered, just loud enough for Redhead to hear. There’s nothing a son of New England despises more than the New York Yankees, so I saw the red mist rise, and I ducked back behind the Ferrari as he lifted the gun toward me. He popped off two shots, both of which hit the asphalt nearby, and I revised my earlier thought about how close he would have to get to hit me. This guy was no sharpshooter. At the sound of gunfire a chorus of voices called out to freeze, put the gun down, police! Perhaps Redhead was disoriented, perhaps he was just plain stupid, but his choice was to turn and fire a volley of shots in the direction of the voices. He didn’t empty the gun, he just stopped firing, and then I heard a volley of shots coming the other way. Unlike Redhead, these shots came from guys who were trained, and I heard several bullets make contact and the sound of a body hitting the deck. There were more footsteps, then more shouting, this time from over near my SUV. I figured Baldy was already in the position the police wanted him. Several sets of footsteps stopped near Redhead. Then, after a moment of silence, I heard a call.
“Miami Jones,” said the voice.
“Don’t shoot,” I replied. I crawled out from beside the Ferrari, my hands well away from my body. There were three cops crouched around the prone frame of Redhead. He looked paler than usual, which wasn’t a good sign. Not for him, anyway.
“How many of them?” asked the cop nearest me.
“Just the two.”
The cop spoke into a handset attached to his shoulder. “You have one suspect?” he said.
“One, sir,” crackled the response.
“We have one as well. All suspects accounted for. All clear,” he said. The three cops stood.
“You packing, Jones?” asked the cop.
“No. I’m not armed.”
He nodded. “Get up, you look ridiculous.”
I stood and brushed myself off. I didn’t go over to the cops. I didn’t really want to see Redhead. He was dead because of his own stupidity, or his own choices, or at least the choices he’d been able to make given his frame of reference. It was a deep philosophical hole I was staring into, so I turned away and looked across to my Escape. I could hear the whimpering coming from Baldy, and I saw the cops all standing over him. They weren’t offering assistance, but then I figured they didn’t carry ibuprofen on them.
Before long some paramedics arrived and got Baldy on a gurney, and he left handcuffed inside an ambulance. I was told to wait, which I did. I lifted the tailgate on the Escape and sat down. A medical examiner’s van rolled up and some photos were taken, and tape run around, then the body was removed. After the mess had been tidied up, I saw the lanky frame of Eric Edwards wander across the lot from his office. He smoothed his tie as he walked.
“Friends of yours, Jones?” he said, as he approached me.
“Hardly.” I wasn’t in the mood to even try to think of a witty retort. I didn’t like Redhead, and he had tried to kill me, but regardless, a dead body had just been driven away and it left me deflated. It wasn’t the first death I’d seen and probably wouldn’t be the last unless I got my PGA ticket and starting teaching golf, but it wasn’t something I ever planned on getting comfortable with.
“Tell me,” said Eric.
So I told him. About the illegal betting and how I had upset the applecart. I told him Jenny Almondson had beefed up security, but I didn’t tell him that it really had nothing to do with the betting. I told him I had driven some business away, and Baldy and Redhead had come for retribution. I left Desi out of the story, as well as Lucas.
“So it looks like I saved your bacon again,” said Eric.
“Again? I don’t recall the first time. And I’d say this time I did you a favor. Imagine what my dead body outside your window would do for your business.”
“Imagine what it would have done for yours,” he said.
Touché.
“What are you getting at, Eric?”
“You had cigars with Elroy Hoskin at the party.”
“Are you sore because you got left out?”
“I’d like to meet him,” said Eric.
I nodded. I got it. Good to have donors on all sides.
“Lady Cassandra not enough for you?” I said.
“Lady Cassandra is delightful and will be a wonderful supporter. But that was then. What have you done for me lately?”
“You’re a piece of work, Eric, I tell you. Fine, next time I see Hoskin, I’ll mention you. Make an introduction.”
“Good,” he said, smoothing his tie again. We heard the sound of squeaky brakes and turned to see a news van arrive outside the parking lot.
Eric gave his tie an extra patting down, then smiled. “Excuse me. I have to tell the good people of the Palm Beaches we have taken out some more bad guys.”
I was pretty sure his we did not include me, so I watched him stride over to the news crew, then I told the cop in charge of the scene that I was going to my office, and if he wanted a statement he knew where to find me. He told me to wait, that he’d be done with me when he said so. I turned away and wandered across the lot. The news crew was setting up a camera and lights, and a pretty blond reporter was chatting to Eric. I left the cops to their stuff, I left my car open with the keys inside, and I headed over to my office, both for some reflection time and some hard liquor.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I DIDN’T GO to my office, not right away. As I reached the front door I noted the nameplates of my fellow tenants, and one name stuck out, firing my synapses off in all sorts of directions and giving me an idea. I dropped into the offices of Croswitz and Allen, Attorneys at Law. They were the sort of law firm that one often found in the orbit around courthouses, surrounded by bail bondsmen and check cashing outlets. The sort of law firm that specialized in taking the low-hanging fruit, and shied away from anything too big, or too legally taxing. The partners in the firm were the firm, except that Allen had retired to Naples a few years earlier. He’d established a mailbox in a packing store over on the Gulf Coast, which enabled the firm to claim offices in both cities, and he took the odd will and conveyance case that he ran through
the company books. Croswitz handled mostly personal injury, specializing in car wrecks. He looked a thousand years old and avoided juries like the plague.
The office was small and clean, but empty. I knocked, then knocked again, then wandered in and rang the bell that sat on the reception desk. Nothing. So I walked in and knocked on the private office, then opened the door. Croswitz was asleep at his desk, head back, mouth open. I might have thought he was dead, except for the guttural snore that shook the bookshelves. I didn’t want to give the old fossil a heart attack, so I poked him gently, with no response. I took a stack of legal journals from a bookcase and dropped them onto his desk. He stirred at the impact, smacked his lips together, then opened his eyes.
“Miami, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, as if he had been studying the legal journals I’d thrown in front of him. He wiped his mouth and rubbed his eyes. “How are you?”
“Not bad. Just got shot at.”
“Well, that’s something. What can I do for you?”
“Your girl in today?” I smiled. Maybe at his age you got away with calling your receptionist your girl, but I knew if I tried that with Lizzy, she would tear me a new one.
“No,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “She’s only in two days a week. Why?”
“I need to sue somebody. Today.”
Croswitz nodded like this was not an unusual request. “I have a boilerplate on the computer. I can call my wife’s nephew to take the papers over to the courthouse. He’s useless for most things, but he can deliver papers.”
“Can he serve them on the defendant?”
“Sure,” nodded the old guy. “This isn’t going to trial, is it?” he said, suddenly concerned.
“Not even close.”
Croswitz smiled his yellow grin.
I left him to enter the names and dates on his boilerplate document, and I headed up to my office. Lizzy sat at her desk, typing something that I didn’t need to know about. She looked at me, then narrowed her eyes.
“There was gunfire down in the parking lot,” she said.
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
“I’m going to need danger pay if that keeps up.”
“Just don’t leave the office with me,” I said, smiling.
I went into my office and poured three fingers of Scotch and lay back on the sofa. I didn’t feel good. I was halfway between hungover and healthy, and although my doctor might not have agreed with my chosen remedy, the Scotch did take the edge off. I was thinking about the Boston guys, about them losing their jobs. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the beating we gave them, or the money, or the fact that we had taken out the van as a result. Either way, with Baldy down for the count and Redhead off to the morgue, it was good odds on not getting a repeat visit.
Ron burst into my office, a frown of concern plastered across his face. He pointed out the window.
“You?” he said.
I nodded and sipped.
“I didn’t realize you were carrying these days,” he said, dropping in the seat behind my desk.
“I’m not. The cops took that guy down.”
“The officer in charge seemed miffed you’d left the scene.”
“He knows where to find me.”
We chatted while I finished my Scotch, then I put the glass on the floor and closed my eyes. When I woke the sun had almost gone, and I was startled by Lizzy coming into the room. Ron was still behind my desk, but he seemed to have gotten himself a coffee and finished it.
“A package for you,” she said. “A kid from Croswitz and Allen just dropped it off.”
I swung my feet onto the floor and sat up. Lizzy handed me the package and wandered out. I took it and ripped it open. There was a note, along with some papers and a jewel case with a CD inside. The note was from Jenny Almondson.
Miami, thought I’d hear from you, so here is a copy of what I have. Sorry, JA.
“What is it?” asked Ron.
“The evidence against Julio.”
“How did that happen so fast? I thought you said Croswitz’s nephew was going to serve the papers this afternoon?” asked Ron.
“I asked him to serve her before he went to the courthouse. Clearly, Jenny Almondson was expecting it. She had this ready to go.”
I dropped the CD into the tray and pressed play. As it began spinning around I looked at the papers. They were an executive summary of what was on the CD and why. The summary detailed how, as per Florida gaming regulations, Casino Director of Security George Finau undertook an investigation into alleged improprieties in the gaming on jai alai after receiving an anonymous tipoff. As part of the inquiry, Finau hired a local private investigator, Max Stubbs, who discovered potential unsanctioned betting practices by Diego Alvarez, better known as Julio. The report said Stubbs met with Julio under the guise of an illegal bookmaker, wearing a wire. The following pages were a transcript of the highlights of their conversation. I stopped reading and listened as the recording kicked in. There was a lot of background noise, like they were at a party, or the mall.
Stubbs: “The question is, can you deliver the results we need?”
Julio: “Of course.”
Stubbs: “Can you offer spreads, or just wins in specified games?”
Julio: “Wins. The other, this will cost more.”
Stubbs: “Cost is not the issue. If you can fix the results we need, we’ll get the bets on, and you and your boys will get your cut.”
Julio: “We can deliver exactly what you want.”
Stubbs: “Good. This envelope has a down payment. Five hundred. Deliver us a win for Miguel in the first game on Tuesday, by two points. You do that, we can do more business. Okay?”
Julio: “It will be done.”
Ron flipped open the laptop on my desk and tapped at the keys as I finished reading the report. Stubbs had provided the evidence to Finau, who had reported it to Almondson. She had consulted with the casino’s attorneys and, as a result, had met with Julio. The outcome of that meeting had been Julio’s dismissal.
“Okay, Tuesday last,” said Ron. He ran his finger down the screen and frowned, then looked at me.
“Miguel won the first game by two points.”
I leaned back against the sofa and put my hands on my head. “So are we representing a cheat?”
Ron copied my lean back and hands on head, then added pouting lips. “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?”
“Fixing jai alai isn’t this easy. One guy can’t really do it,” said Ron.
“That’s what Roto said.”
“I remember back in the day, there was always a lot of talk about how the game was crooked, but no one ever really figured a way. One guy doesn’t dominate play enough. It’s not one on one, it’s one on seven, and any of those seven could upset your plan, so you’d almost need them all in.”
“Could they all be in it?” I said. “I mean, I can’t imagine a jai alai player earns that much. This must be tempting.”
“They earn more than you think,” said Ron. “Back in the eighties it was big money, but even now I think they have a base salary plus prize money. It comes in around seventy grand a year.”
“Not too shabby.”
Ron shook his head. “What do you know about the casino manager?” he asked.
“Jenny? She’s a looker—just don’t tell Danielle I said that. But she seems to support the jai alai, even if it is begrudgingly. She acknowledged it was a necessary cross to bear to be in business. She even beefed up security after the initial threats.”
“What about the security guy?”
“Finau? Big unit. Samoan, Tongan, something like that. Doesn’t say much. Doesn’t have to. After the threats it looks like Jenny had him bring in some of his own people. They create a presence, that’s for sure. Which makes me think, do you know anything about this PI, Stubbs? I don’t know him.”
Ron nodded and picked up the phone. “I’ve heard of him, but Lizzy will know more.”
&n
bsp; Ron called Lizzy and she came back in with something that could almost pass for a smile. Ron had that effect on her. I had the opposite effect. Her hair was the color of coal, and her pale face was made even whiter by the shock of red lipstick that seemed permanently tattooed on her lips. She looked like the kind of woman who might beat her husband, regardless of his size, but she had no such relationship. Jesus, she said, was the only man in her life. Ron asked her to sit with us, and she took a visitor’s chair by my desk.
“Do you know of a PI called Stubbs, Max Stubbs?” said Ron.
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