Too Much Stuff lam-5

by Don Bruns

  Weezle spoke like his nose was stuffed up. Actually, it was broken and the blood probably had filled his nasal passages.

  “If there’s any gold in those boxes, some of it should be ours.”

  The low-hanging light cast shadows, but we could see inside. There was a top layer of rocks, pieces of coquina and limestone that covered the surface.

  I reached in and tossed them to the ground, anxious to get to the bottom of things.

  Lying on the bottom of the box were small chunks of rusted iron.

  “This is not possible.” James stood back, a stoic look on his face.

  “What’s the purpose?” Em stared into the box, shaking her head.

  “It’s only one crate.” Maria looked at the four unopened crates on the ground. “There are nine more crates. Let’s not give up so fast.”

  Our two trussed captives looked up from their position on the ground.

  “No gold?” Weezle croaked.

  I bit my bottom lip.

  “No. No gold. Congratulations,” James said. “It appears that you guys gave up your business to find some stones and old pieces of iron.”

  There was a long sigh from Markim. He hadn’t bled to death. Yet.

  We picked the fourth crate, just to make it a random search. Twenty minutes later we popped the top. Rocks. More rocks and iron.

  “Why would someone bury rocks and iron?” Maria looked like she could cry.

  I sat on the ground, closing my eyes, and remembering the conversation with Bernie Blattner. It came back to me and for a moment I was almost nauseous.

  “Jackie Logan.”

  “Who?” James was propped up against a tree.

  The quiet of the early morning was cloying, and it was almost by necessity that we made noise.

  “Come on, man.” I was shouting. “Jackie Logan. Bernie Blattner’s coworker.”

  “What about him?”

  “Remember the story? The local pineapple growers needed to make more money, so what did Bernie and Jackie do?”

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” Em had finally gotten the message. “They’d add scrap iron from the railroad to the shipments of fruit to up the price. It translated into more pounds of fruit. Until they got caught.”

  “So?” James looked back and forth at the two of us. “So?”

  I turned to him, raising my arms, my palms up.

  “Oh, my God, Skip.” He shouted the name just as I had. “Jackie Logan. That bastard Jackie Logan.”

  “Son of a bitch figured it out.”

  “The rich son of a bitch. Damn. And this poor Matthew Kriegel, looking out for the Eastern Railway Company, is dying of fever-”

  “Probably did die of fever, James. No one ever found him or the boxes. But Jackie Logan, he figures that with the right weight and the metal straps, the nails in the lid, it would take someone a while to figure out that these boxes didn’t contain the original gold.”

  “Jackie Logan. He figures out those boxes are worth more than five dollars to haul them to a graveyard.” Em sat on the corner of the box, her chin in her hands.

  “He and the guys who helped bury the crates, dig them up, open them, lift the gold, fill ’em back up and somehow take off with all of that treasure.” I knew in my gut that’s what had happened.

  “And anyone from the railroad who dug them up would assume they still had the gold.” It was all making sense. “It gave Jackie more time to get away.”

  “Only,” James said, “no one ever came back for the gold. Until now.”

  “Who’s going to call Mrs. T.?” Em was always the pragmatic one.

  “She’ll be devastated.” Maria had only met her once, but knew the lady would not be happy.

  “Jackie Logan. What did he end up doing?” James was pissed.

  “Split the loot with the black guys who helped him, buried boxes of rocks and iron to approximate the weight of gold, and went to some other South American country. Bernie said he bought a plantation down there.”

  “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it. I do not believe that we’ve been screwed like this.”

  “Worst part of this, James. What do you think is the worst part of this entire experience?”

  He thought for a moment. “That we don’t get the money?”

  “No. That we can’t go after the damned guy. Jackie Logan is long since dead. I’m sure of it.”

  “Point well taken, amigo.” He breathed deeply. “And the money is long since spent, Skip.”

  “There’s probably one more person who should feel worse than we do.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Bernie Blattner. Bernard.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Em said. “He turned down the moving job so he could help the railroad. And how did that work out for him?”

  I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. Somebody had kneed me in the groin, or taken away my oxygen. There was no gold. There was no treasure. No dreams, no more surprises.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. We had a couple of surprises left.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Maria borrowed the private investigator’s Harley with the gold fender that had been parked about halfway down the shell road and took off for home. We’d called the sheriff’s office and left a message for Big D. We also told him who had killed Stiffle at Pelican Cove. We told him that Weezle was the same guy who took a shot at us at the Cove and whose blood had stained the walkway outside our room.

  Then we called 911 and told the concerned lady who answered that there were two badly injured men at a storage lot off of the highway just south of Islamorada.

  It was Em’s idea to visit Mrs. T. in person. I figured she’d still be awake, and we would break the news to her gently.

  “Skip, it’s not the end of the world.” Em was already sitting pretty good. A new Porsche, a rich daddy. James and I didn’t even have a running start.

  “I know. But this was going to be huge.”

  “Think about Mrs. Trueblood. I mean, she expected forty million dollars. Forty million, Skip.”

  “She did. All we expected was-”

  “Two million, compadre.” James shook his head, driving north on the highway. “Two million dollars. I think we’d already spent it.”

  We drove past the strip club, empty now at three in the morning, and down to the post office. I was the first one to see the flashing blue-and-red light.

  “James. Cops.”

  “Damn. If we had a new truck we could outrun ’em.”

  “So they got the message about Weezle and Markim?” Em didn’t seem too concerned.

  James pulled over, gritting his teeth as the uniformed officer approached.

  “Mr. Royster, I need to see your driver’s license.”

  The young man stood ramrod straight, his hand out for the piece of plastic.

  “I’m not Mr. Royster.”

  “Are you borrowing his truck?”

  “I don’t know who the hell you’re looking for but I’m not-”

  I reached across Em and hit him on the shoulder.

  “What the-”

  “James. Tell the officer.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “We were going to report the license plate tomorrow. You know, we’d talked about driving down to the station and-”

  I saw a glimmer of light in his eyes as he realized what was going on. We were driving on a stolen plate. Some guy named Royster was the owner of this license plate.

  “Is this your truck?”

  “It is.”

  “Is that your plate?”

  James looked at me.

  “No, sir,” I said. “We believe somebody switched plates with us for some reason We have no idea why, but we just noticed it today. Well, tonight. So we thought that we’d report it first thing this morning.”

  And, as I said it, I thought about cameras being everywhere. Maybe they had a security camera outside the strip club where they had digital images of James taking the plate from Royster’s tr
uck and putting it on ours.

  I saw the second set of lights, then the third. Three patrol cars were now parked by the side of the road.

  “Are you employed by Doctor Praveen Malhotra?”

  James looked at me, fear in his eyes. We’d gone from being almost killed to discovering that our fortune had vanished. Now the reviled law enforcement agents were ready to arrest us on identity theft.

  “No. I think there’s been some misunderstanding.”

  Two more officers walked up and the three of them had a short conference.

  “James,” I whispered quickly, “this Royster, he could have switched the plate with us, right?”

  “Why? Why would he switch plates with us? I mean, I know why we switched plates with him. So we wouldn’t be identified, but-”

  He was back at the window. “If you refuse to surrender your driver’s license, you’ll have to come with us. This truck has been identified as one of several vehicles transporting illegal aliens to Miami.”

  “What?”

  And there it was. Transporting illegal aliens. That was why Royster could just as easily have switched the plates with our truck. And it was just our luck. The one truck that we picked, the one plate in all of the Florida Keys that we stole, was owned by someone who may be a federal felon. What’s the line? If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.

  He’d drawn his weapon.

  “Exit the vehicle and open the back of your truck. Now.”

  James bristled, I scooted out and helped Em. She clutched her bag by her side.

  “Open it, sir.”

  My best friend’s hand was shaking as he released the lever. The door creaked and rattled as it slid up and I remembered thinking we should use some of that WD-40 on our truck.

  Four officers surveyed the empty interior with flashlights, causing a lightshow that bounced off every strut, panel and floor screw. I think they were genuinely disappointed that we didn’t have people stowed in the back.

  One of the men finally picked up the magnetic sign, studying it for a moment.

  “You gentlemen are plumbers?”

  I shot James a dirty look.

  “No. Came with the truck.”

  “I’ll need to see all three of your licenses.”

  We pulled them out and handed them to him. After carefully inspecting each one, he handed them to another officer who walked to his car. They were going to check the computer and see if we had any priors. I’d seen enough TV and movies to know how this worked.

  They escorted us back into the truck and we sat there and waited. And waited. And waited.

  Finally the original officer walked back to the truck.

  “Sir, leave the keys in the vehicle. You and your friends are coming with us.”

  We were each cuffed with nylon ties, a first for Em and me, and pushed into the back of a cruiser.

  The dashboard looked like some major control panel with a mounted computer, GPS, and other assorted technical stuff I was not familiar with.

  “Can you please tell me what we’re being arrested for?” Em had an edge to her voice.

  “We’re going to take you to the station until we get this sorted out.”

  James was strangely silent, staring straight ahead.

  “What time is it?” I couldn’t very well check my cell phone.

  The officer checked his watch. “Three twenty-five.”

  “Humor us for five or six minutes.”

  “This is not exactly a laughing matter.” He started his car.

  “Officer, all I’m asking is that you drive by the vacant lot down by the Ocean Air Suites.”

  “I’m sorry, we’re headed to the station. If everything checks out, you’ll be free to go in the morning.”

  “Officer, we could make you a hero.”

  He was silent as the cruiser pulled away. James and Em both gave me strange looks.

  “Listen, you said that somebody who works for Dr. Malhotra is using a truck to shuttle illegal aliens up to Miami, am I right?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I think there’s a good chance I can show you where those illegal aliens are coming ashore. About two blocks from here.”

  “Skip, oh my God, it makes sense.” James’s eyes were big and wide.

  “The vacant lot?”

  “The vacant lot at three thirty a.m. I think the fishing tournament is still going on.”

  “Lines up at three o’clock,” Em said. “Skip, you’re right on the money.” She bumped me with her shoulder. “What we saw those people smuggling was,” she paused, “those people. I’ll bet that the people we saw were being smuggled in from Cuba.”

  The officer pulled over to the curb, pulled out his radio, and called someone.

  “This is Jakes. I’m going to need backup at the Ocean Air Suites.”

  There was a brief pause, then, “Ten-four. How many units would you estimate?”

  He looked back at me.

  “There will be two attack dogs and thirty-some people.”

  “Better send three or four cars.”

  “Three or four?”

  “It’s about the illegals. I’ve got some persons of interest who seem to think we’re going to catch the smugglers in the act.”

  “Ten-four, John. They’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

  “Oh, and bring about forty Tuff-Ties.”

  “Forty? You’ve got forty people to cuff?”

  “If my information is correct, we could have up to forty. That’s a ten-four.”

  Officer Jakes turned and stared at me. “How do you know about this?”

  “We stumbled onto it, officer. We just never put it together until now.”

  “Step out of the car.”

  We worked our way out and he walked behind us, cutting the nylon cuffs with a knife.

  “I want you three to remain in the car at all times. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah.” James grabbed my arm and squeezed. “Damn, Skip. You’ve got to be dead on.”

  “The property is totally fenced in, so unless you want to jump the fence, the best place to observe and catch them is the beach down at the Ocean Air.”

  Jakes started up the car, getting back on the mike. “All cars, park on the street in front of the vacant property next to-”

  He reached over and punched in something on his mounted computer. I could see the screen as Google Earth came into view.

  “-next to eighty-two-eight hundred Old Highway.”

  He pulled up and parked. “Oh, and Joan, get a search warrant for that property and the adjoining properties.”

  “It may take a while.”

  “Wake somebody up. We need it now.”

  We were looking at each other, wondering if we should have gotten involved. We’d already had our excitement for the night and now-

  “You three have jumped this fence?”

  “Oh, no, officer. We just were walking the beach one night and-”

  “Jumping the fence, that would be trespassing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He stepped out of the car and popped the trunk. We heard it close and he walked around the side of the car and up to the heavy metal fence. In the faint streetlight we saw him with what appeared to be a big pair of metal cutters.

  Working the thick, rubber-coated handles, he brought the blades together and sliced that steel like butter.

  “Are they allowed to do that?” James asked.

  “James,” Em gave him a puzzled look, “when did you ever worry about what you were allowed to do?”

  “But he’s a cop and all.”

  Within minutes he’d opened a hole wide enough to squeeze through. After putting the cutters back in the trunk, he leaned his head in the window.

  “I checked that fence. There’s an opening that somebody must have cut. I’m going to walk in and have a look around. For security purposes. You three-”

  “We know,” I said. “Stay in the car.”
/>   He worked his way through the narrow hole, fighting the trees and brush, and was lost from sight.

  “I’m not staying in the car.”

  “No door handles.” I had just realized.

  James climbed over the driver’s seat and opened Jakes’s door. We followed.

  “Now what?”

  “Our usual spot?”

  We walked over to the south side, kneeling down and looking through the opening in the foliage. There was Jakes, walking down by the boat dock and, almost immediately, I spotted a light just off to the east. It appeared that the boat would make an appearance this morning.

  “He’s going to be right in their headlight.” Em pointed.

  “Don’t worry. He seems to be pretty sharp.”

  “How sharp can he be, amigo? He listened to you.”

  We heard the other cars pull up, the soft purr of the engines and the silence when they turned them off.

  The boat was closer and now there was no sign of Officer Jakes. He’d disappeared. The west gate opened and we could hear the two dogs, their high-pitched whining now etched in my mind.

  “Watch the gate by Ocean Air.”

  The north gate opened and I could make out the Indian doctor as he strode through. Nodding at the man who held the dogs on a leash, he moved down to the dock. The throbbing engine sound became louder and louder as the watercraft approached.

  There was a gentle thump as the fiberglass boat bumped the wooden dock and then they were tossing ropes and tying up the vessel.

  As before, the passengers paraded off the deck, onto the dock and dry land. The dogs sat on their haunches, whimpering, waiting to attack someone. Anyone.

  Malhotra was pointing the way to the north gate, and that’s when the lights came on.

  A sudden burst of spotlights, some were from the squad cars on Old Highway, some were beams from heavy-duty Maglites carried by the officers. The field lit up like a firecracker and for a brief instant everyone seemed to freeze.

  “?Vamonos!” Somebody was shouting, and the Cubans started running. Some for the gate as two officers ran in, guns drawn.

  There was mad scramble as the immigrants looked for an escape, and within seconds saw their only hope was to find another gate or vault the fence. Suitcases were dropped and bags were thrown at deputies as the boat passengers darted this way and that.