by Al Turner
“See,” said Carson with a smirk, “destiny.”
“I certainly hope so. I’d hate to think we just caught him cheating on Mrs. Sanchez,” said Tripp.
“You would worry about such things. This is a sign. We find a map with this area marked, and Sanchez shows up here. It’s just meant to be,” she said and lowered her voice. “I hope.”
“I won’t even try and guess the odds,” Tripp said.
“Save your brain for more important tasks. Let’s go,” said Carson as Sanchez disappeared into the small condo.
“Exactly where are we going?”
“We’re exactly going to that pink condo and looking in the windows. Where’s your sense of adventure, Detective?”
Begrudgingly, Tripp followed. Daniel, eyeing Carson’s fries, decided to stay back in the Jeep as a lookout. He said that the more bodies that hovered around the house, the better the chance they had of getting caught.
Carson and Tripp maneuvered around parked cars, under the cover of night. As they crept up to the closest window near the corner of the condo, a shadow approached the door and opened it for Sanchez. Soon the door closed again.
“Did you catch a glimpse of who opened the door?” asked Tripp as they knelt down near the window.
“No,” said Carson, peering into the window and then ducking down again. The room was dimly lit. “I do see an old man standing there. He’s talking to somebody, probably Sanchez.”
“What does he look like?”
“Well, he’s Hispanic, has an old pickup—”
“That’s cute. I’m familiar with what Mr. Sanchez looks like.”
Carson chuckled at her own joke and stuck out her tongue. “Oh, you mean the other guy. Well, he’s old, has some white fuzz on his pasty head. His face is pitted and he’s as thin as a rail. I think he’s wearing pajamas. Why don’t you get up and look for yourself?”
“Nice description, and no, I’m fine where I am. Can you hear anything?”
“Yeah, my brother’s blather. It would be nice if I could hear the conversation inside, though.”
Tripp said, “Okay, I get the hint. I wished I’d brought along some additional gear. My sound amplification equipment from the office would have been ideal.”
Carson suddenly ducked down. Instinctively, he lowered himself beside her.
They peered up as the window opened slowly. Over the windowsill hung bony fingers. They dared not move for fear of being spotted. Soon the hands disappeared.
“Dat better?” came the raspy voice. “Da cleanin’ lady was sick dis week.”
As they heard the words, the stench coming from the window hit their olfactory nerves. It reminded Carson of the time she tagged along with her dad, as part of his church duties, to visit an old sick woman in hospice. She pinched her nostrils and made a gagging gesture. It wasn’t the worst smell she had ever been subjected too, but it did seem excessive for someone who had just missed a single week’s worth of cleaning. At least now they could hear the conversation in the room better.
“Yes, thanks,” came Sanchez’s voice. “Jitters, I need to go into the attic.”
“I already told ya,” said Jitters, who had to cough before continuing. After he hacked up whatever was in his lungs, he wheezed. “Dere’s nuttin’ in da attic ya need, cop.”
“Look, Pops sent me and I know what I’m looking for. You don’t, old man. I’m going up there.”
The sound of Sanchez’s boots on a wooden floor echoed throughout the house, followed by the distinct creak of stairs being climbed. Tripp took his turn peering into the window. He whispered a report to Carson. “Sanchez is already up the stairs, and Jitters is sitting in a chair near the window.”
The man hacked and then cleared his throat. “Dat briefcase is gone,” he yelled in a high-pitched nasal tone. Then he said under his breath, “Stupid wetback.”
They heard the sound of Sanchez’s rapid descent down the stairs. Tripp ducked down again.
“What did you say, old man?” said Sanchez.
“Nuttin’.”
“Know what? Pops has been good to you. He saved your worthless butt and let you stay in this nice place. You owe him a lot. Now you say the briefcase is gone.”
Tripp gave a puzzled glance to Carson. She mouthed the question “Pops’s condo?” He shrugged.
“Oh dat,” said Jitters, sounding relieved he didn’t hear the wetback remark.
“How did you know there was a briefcase up there? It was well hidden.” Sanchez’s voice had more than a hint of concern in it.
“Pops' boy came n' got it.”
“Jack retrieved it? That sounds like bullshit to me.”
Carson had to risk a peek, even though Tripp was silently trying to dissuade her from it. She rose cautiously until her left eye could see in. Sanchez, looking down at the phone in his hand, was about to call someone. She ducked again as he raised the phone to his ear.
“Pops, I’m here. The old man claims Jack already collected the briefcase.”
“Not Jack, ya idiot.” Jitters’s words were accompanied by a spray of spittle.
“Wait, you just said Pops’s son, you old fart. Now which is it?”
The old man coughed. “Da odah one—da lil’ wetback.”
“Joe?”
“Yup.”
Sanchez relayed to Pops that Joe had picked it up and swore as he hung up. “Looks like I’m heading to New Orleans now.”
Jitters said something inaudible as Sanchez walked toward the door.
Carson and Tripp headed for the nearest vehicle they could find in the parking lot, a gray Acura, and hid behind it. The Jeep would be too far away to get to before Sanchez walked out the door.
As he left, Sanchez turned back to Jitters. “I better not ever hear you call anyone a wetback again, ya crusty Cajun bastard.” He shut the door abruptly and walked right past where Carson and Tripp were hiding. After he got into his truck, he called his wife to let her know he wouldn’t be home for dinner. He crossed himself, started the old pickup, and left.
As Sanchez drove away, Jitters stuck his head out the window and yelled to the departing truck. It was unintelligible and full of profanity. When Sanchez kept going, the old man made a frustrated sound, waved a dismissive hand, and closed his window.
“What form of dialect was that?” asked Tripp.
“Bad Cajun, I guess—don’t really care. C’mon,” said Carson excitedly as she pulled him toward the Jeep.
“I assume we’re going to New Orleans,” Tripp said, trying to keep up with her fast pace. Her lack of response made him nod; clearly it was the only confirmation he needed.
Carson yanked the Jeep’s door open. “Let’s go. We have to beat Sanchez to Uncle Joe’s.”
Daniel jumped at her abrupt entry. He was studying what little data he had found from their dad’s computer. “Where are we going?”
She and Tripp were seated with their belts fastened before she answered. “New Orleans. Plot me a course to Uncle Joe’s house,” she said as the Jeep bolted off.
“I don’t know where your uncle Joe lives,” Daniel said.
“It’s saved in my navigation,” Carson replied. “I found the address and went to see him last year.”
“Right. I vaguely remember Tripp mentioning that.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have a copy of my navigation entries, like you did my key fob,” Carson said, her eyes narrowing as she glanced back. “Do you have a dupe to my apartment too?”
Before Daniel could try to avoid the question, a car pulled out in front of them, making Carson swerve. After they avoided the accident, as well as survived Carson’s road rage moment, Daniel mumbled something about being grateful to the car for providing a distraction.
“How about we just get there in one piece?” Tripp said.
Daniel avoided any further questions that might have incriminating answers. “We can do trivia.”
At that, Carson reached over and turned the radio on. She searched fo
r a rock station and turned the volume up loud enough to drown out any conversation. Daniel and Tripp got comfortable with the noise and tried to nap, while Carson plotted her own course and set the cruise control about ten miles per hour higher than the posted speed limit. The radio drowned out her sudden cursing as she realized she should have used the bathroom before they left.
THE POKER ROOM
The bar was located on the other side of the square, almost directly across from the old post office. It wasn’t particularly large, but it had three levels. The lower level included a pool table, some dartboards, a few round tables, and a jukebox. The second level housed the main bar and several tables for eating. Its weathered wooden interior was meant to resemble an old ship. The walls were covered with various pictures and decor that reflected life at sea during the heyday of piracy in the Caribbean. The top floor had a similar theme to the one below it but with a smaller bar and an open smoking area.
After finishing a phone call with Sanchez, Pops ascended to the top patio where he was met with the scent of cigar smoke and humid night air. As he reached the last of the wooden steps, he searched for a cigar in his pocket but couldn’t find one. With everything going on, maybe he had already smoked it.
He figured on seeing Jack, but instead there was only Shelby, dressed in his typical fedora and jacket. A faint rise of cigar smoke came from the ashtray on the table, probably from where a stogie had just been extinguished. The man sat with his back to the railing and spotted Pops right away. He raised a whiskey glass as Pops approached.
Pops grumbled to himself as he reached the table that sat off by itself. Shelby was hardly someone he wanted to partner with, but it seemed circumstance had brought them together.
“Good to see you, Pops,” Shelby said as he stood and extended a hand.
Pops shook his hand briefly. “Glad you decided against a dress, Shelby.” He sat down across from him.
Shelby motioned for the bartender, a young woman with blonde hair and pink highlights. “This gentlemen will take your best Scotch on the rocks and a cigar. Oh darlin’, this also goes on Jack’s tab.”
The young woman nodded and smiled as she glanced over at Pops. “You’re Carson’s grandpa, right?”
“I am, young lady.”
“I’ve seen a picture of you and her. I took her shift tonight. She was a no-show.”
“So I’ve heard,” Pops said. He focused on Shelby when the young bartender wandered off to fill his order. “I have Sanchez on assignment, so don’t expect him anytime soon. Where the hell is Jack?”
“Maybe he’s chasing down your grandkids.”
“That would be a pointless endeavor. Besides, I saw his truck outside.”
“Then you know as much as I do,” Shelby said and took a drink.
Pops growled in frustration. “Apparently, neither of us knows a whole lot of anything.”
Shelby nodded as he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a Zippo lighter. As if on cue, the bartender arrived and served Pops his drink and cigar. Shelby intercepted the cigar and examined it. He put it in one of his jacket pockets and then reached into the other to produce two others. “Cuban?” He cut both and lit one for Pops.
Pops lost his scowl and nodded as he took a drag from the long stogie. “Don’t mind if I do.”
“How was your meeting with Fumi?” Shelby asked, smoking.
Pops eyed him suspiciously and exhaled an almost perfect ring of smoke. “You seem to have a knack for knowing other people’s business.”
“I never figured that trick out,” Shelby said, watching the smoke ring rise and dissipate. “It’s my job to know things.”
“In addition to leaving messes in your wake, it seems.”
“I love you too, Pops. By the way, you’re welcome for rescuing your daughter-in-law.”
Pops mumbled, “Thank you, Shelby.”
Shelby leaned over the table, holding his cigar in one hand while giving Pops a half-crazed look. “What?”
“Thank you, Shelby,” Pops repeated, more audibly the second time.
Shelby sat up straight and took a deep drag from the cigar, extended his hands, and looked at the ceiling. “And there were angels singing in the heavens at the miracle they had witnessed.” His tune was off-key and white puffs of smoke danced out of his mouth with each word.
“We might as well talk shop while we wait,” Pops said.
Shelby tried to put on a serious face. “Okay, what shall we talk about?”
Pops cleared his throat as he thought about how to approach it. “To start with, Fumi seems to value your opinion.”
“He should. I do quality work.”
Pops ignored Shelby’s self-congratulatory words. “He wasn’t quite himself. It seemed he was trying to say more than his words alone conveyed.”
Shelby pursed his lips as he considered Pops’s statement. “Maybe he just used good English, something you’re not used to.”
Pops wasn’t amused. “Are we going to do this or not?”
“Okay, sorry,” Shelby said with a chuckle. “I couldn’t help myself. Look, Fumi is under a lot of pressure since accepting that chamber position. It requires him to filter everything he says to you.”
“I’d expect that for anyone except me,” Pops said skeptically. “He also had some new faces surrounding him.”
“Probably guild-appointed lackeys.”
Pops leaned into the conversation. “Why would they appoint Fumi to the chamber, knowing his relationship to me? Particularly with everything that has happened.”
Shelby considered it. “That’s a good question, Pops. They must be desperate.”
“Fumi spoke of some new organization. What have you heard?”
Shelby stared at his drink and shook his head. When he looked up, he was almost somber. He lowered his voice. “There’s nothing new or mysterious about this organization, Pops—not to the discerning observer.”
“You sound like Fumi. Just spit it out.”
“There are no outside forces at play here.”
“Fumi seemed inclined to share that opinion.”
“And you have a hard time with that?”
Pops thought about it. “The last time the guild turned on itself was in response to an outside stimulus that affected its core.”
“If I recall my guild history, your own father took part in the solution to that problem. You also seem to forget that you too had to deal with internal struggles during the Cold War.”
This confirmed his suspicions that Shelby knew far more about the Guild of Libra than any outsider should. “Your point?”
“What if this time around it’s something different? In nature, things sometimes have to evolve or die out.”
“Thanks for the biology lesson. What’s the guild evolving into?”
“Good question,” Shelby said, then hesitated before he continued. “Perhaps a question best saved for Fumi himself. After all, he’d have to be part of such an evolution.”
Pops glared at Shelby in warning. “Be careful with your theories, Shelby. It was Fumi, after all, who suggested we work together. I doubt he would have done so knowing you’d use it as a conspiracist platform.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s precisely why he wanted us together on this one.”
Pops was skeptical but decided to move the conversation in a different direction. “Let’s talk about these hired guns who gave you and my family trouble today.”
“Remember your old buddy Alan?” asked Shelby. “Of course you do. Apparently, someone tapped Daddy’s little bastard to give the Page clan a fit.”
“Victor, I would assume,” Pops said. “So Alan’s reaching from beyond the grave through his son. That doesn’t explain why now. I can’t help but think Fumi’s surprise visit and this are connected.”
“Of course they’re connected. But there are some missing pieces. Maybe it’s time you helped fill in the blanks.”
“Me? You apparently know a hell of a lot more
about what’s been going on around here than I do.”
“Around here, yes,” Shelby said. “Beyond that, I’m still trying to figure out how it all fits together.”
Pops finished off his drink. “That makes two of us.”
“Look, I was doing some research for Fumi when Victor’s goons started popping up on my radar. I don’t believe in coincidence. Whatever Fumi got himself into followed him here.”
“But Victor? If that’s the best they can do, then this will all be a done deal by next week.”
“Don’t underestimate a bastard who takes himself too seriously. He may not be as formidable a foe as you’re used to, but he was brought in for a reason, perhaps to keep you busy. Let’s also not forget you’re no spring chicken.”
“I can still raise some hell,” Pops said, snorting. “What’s my son’s take on all of this?”
“As you know, Jack doesn’t typically share what’s on his mind.”
The bartender brought another round and quickly departed. Shelby retrieved his stogie, while Pops dipped the end of his in the Scotch.
“There are times I miss who he was before he became a saint,” Pops said, allowing himself a slight grin. “He was more predictable back then.”
“Hell, we can both drink to that,” Shelby said with a chuckle.
Pops’s phone rang. The caller was the captain of the Abril. “Whatcha got, Ed?”
The way his old friend sighed before he spoke told Pops it wasn’t good news. “Pops, the Coast Guard found Fumi’s yacht burning, east of Miami. At this time, word is that there’s no survivors.”
Pops was stunned. “Let me know the minute you have more.” He was clearly distraught as he hung up and sat quietly.
Shelby sensed the bad news. “What’s wrong?”
Pops downed his freshly poured drink and sat back in his chair. He took a long drag from the cigar and held it. After exhaling, he struggled to find the words. “Fumi’s yacht was found by the Coast Guard, drifting and scorched.” He tried to shake off the shock. “Apparently all aboard were lost.”
“Oh shit,” Shelby said, processing the news. “You realize what this means, right?”