The Second Letter

by Robert Lane

  I made my way back to Impulse and pulled myself over her transom.

  “We’re leaving?” Morgan asked.

  “Si.”

  I paddled until we were well clear of the house and then Morgan turned the key, flipped on the running lights, and banked hard starboard into the black. I watched the house fade behind us, its lights giving in to the night. I was left with one a simple assessment.

  In such a massive structure, an 8½” x 11” envelope could be anywhere and would be impossible to find.

  Search and destroy was off the menu. I was going to have to find something on Escobar to gain leverage and force him to hand over the letter.

  “Leverage” is polite nomenclature for “blackmail.” Anyone who owned three strip clubs, tooled around with mobsters, and, here’s the clincher—owned a carpet business—had to have some serious dirt swept under his rugs.

  I just had to find it.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sunrise the next day was at 6:35. It is not that simple or precise, but we like to believe it is.

  I drove over to the hotel that was a few minutes from my house. The pink Moorish-style hotel was built in the 1920s by an Irishman from Virginia, named after a character in a play from a French dramatist that was turned into an English opera, and is set in a city named for its Russian counterpart.

  I have no idea what all that means.

  A membership allowed me to utilize its facilities, and I kept a locker in the health club. At the pool Jaffe sprayed the paver brick deck with a thick red hose. He inquired where I’d been the past few weeks. We chatted a few minutes about his family in Jamaica, which delayed my entry into the warm water until 6:40, according to the hands on the tower clock. I swam for forty minutes, then sprinted barefoot on the beach in my wet trunks for three miles.

  After my run, I stood under the outdoor shower on the boardwalk by the edge of the sand and let the water rapidly reduce my feverish body temperature. Water displaces heat about twenty-four times faster than air—it’s not that simple or precise either. After a hot run, seventy-two-degree water will instantly chill you, while wandering into a seventy-two-degree room is a waste of time. Water’s edge, the narrow strip of sand that is never dry or wet, was dotted with walkers and joggers, seashell collectors, coffee mug holders, hand holders, and children with plastic buckets gleefully sprinting out to greet the sea. A small yoga class stretched on the high and dry sand, and its participants stretched their arms toward the high blue cloudless sky.

  At its best, life is a real winner.

  In the locker room, I put on cargo shorts and a short sleeve buttoned shirt. In the members lobby I made a cup of Colombian dark and snatched a banana a day before its prime. I asked Joan, the attendant, if she was still doing her systems check every morning. She lived alone and had suffered a stroke a few months back, but didn’t realize it until later in the day when she first attempted speech. Nothing she would normally be concerned with, but on that given day, it just didn’t kick in. She staged a full recovery, and her children bought her a cat. They insisted that she verbally greet her feline companion every morning as a method to ascertain if everything was operational. But when she showed me pictures of her grandchildren on her phone, her hands trembled. Full recovery. Really—the crap we believe in.

  At its worse, life constantly reminds us that it’s a short-term lease. A one-way ticket, and when they hand it to you, you have no idea at what stop you’re getting off.

  I took the outdoor stairs and claimed a white wood rocking chair on the second-floor porch. I peeled the banana, opened a newspaper, and watched two guys below me in the courtyard give each other a kiss. A corporate crowd wearing nametags, storm troopers of the business world, made their way out to the southern pool where breakfast on round tables with black tablecloths awaited them.

  The sun would turn into ice crystals, the Republican Party would embrace the EPA, and the marines would adopt Lennon’s “Imagine” as a theme song before I went to breakfast with my name hanging around my goddamned neck.

  My phone rang. I tossed my banana peel at a seashell garbage can.

  “I changed my mind,” I said without salutation to Garrett. “Upon further consideration, I believe that contentment has finally found me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Floating on the edge of the Milky Way.”

  “Bring it in, Jake.”

  “The hotel.”

  “You’re not compatible with contentment.”

  “Depends what she looks like.”

  “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

  “Still might give her a try one day.”

  “What have you discovered?”

  “That inner peace is knowing that you’d rather see a church burn than spill a martini.”

  “Can we talk now or do I need to wait till you come off your exercise high?”

  “Let’s roll.”

  “Stone churches don’t burn,” Garrett said.

  “And I would give up a week of martinis to preserve this old dame, but there’s nothing there but a one-armed old docent who still uses the word ‘bequeath.’ Morgan and I scouted the house; the photos don’t do it justice. It’s a guarded compound. How’d this guy know the letter was hidden in the wall at the back of the church?”

  “‘Bequeath’? Really? How many points is that?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “I thought it’d be more.”

  “Q carries it.”

  Garrett said, “Ask him when he hands it off. Almost has to be some local connection, but it doesn’t matter. Janssen called again. Pushing the heat. Said the pressure’s coming from the State Department and it’s related to the World Fairness Bill. We continually knock other countries for human rights violations, or at least our interpretation of human rights, and there is some concern that the letter, if exposed, will make a mockery of our sanctity for human lives, let alone third world working conditions. My bet is the letter is a damaging relic from the Vietnam era.”

  “Johnson’s war,” I added.

  “Killed him too.”

  “We win that one?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Should have nuked them all.”

  “Maybe that’s in print.”

  “Why’s he bleeding it to us?” I asked.

  “Maybe that’s how he’s getting it, maybe to put a fire under us, maybe because he gets his rocks off stringing us along.”

  “That’s a barge load of maybes.” The two guys below selected lounge chairs and moved them tight up against each other so that there was no space between them. They each had a cup of coffee. For a moment I thought I was back in Key West.

  “Jake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Got a plan?”

  “I’d eventually like to procreate and enter that whole chain of life thing.” Garrett didn’t respond to that. “I got a good feel for the place last night, what might work and what might constitute a suicide attempt. I need to get close to Escobar and figure how to introduce myself to him. Any ideas yourself?”

  “It always falls apart.”

  “The sooner the better.”

  We disconnected, and I perused the newspaper. The front page contained an article about the World Fairness Bill. We wanted to dictate to other countries what minimum acceptable working conditions and hours should be. Vietnam and Cambodia were objecting, but they carried little political weight. They retained the Chinese, who also opposed the bill, to help plead their case. China presented the delicate task of negotiating with a sovereign power that by virtue of holding massive amounts of our debt was bankrolling the United States. Furthermore, the United States, along with Europe, was secretly lobbying the Chinese to contribute to a bailout fund for the aging continent in which only the Huns had their house in order. Decades of government overspending had finally caught up with the older developed countries, and they contentiously debated in what manner to address their economic stalemate. At least they no longer sett
led their difference in Waterloo. Flanders. Verdun. Normandy.

  My body started to protest from burning too many calories without anything coming in. I vacated the chair, picked up my banana peel, and dropped it in the can.

  Sea Breeze restaurant was across the street from the public pier on the bay. Its knotty pine walls, low ceiling, and open windows with thick red geraniums in the flower boxes remained unchanged since radio was the hottest technology. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dorothy Harrison had frequented the place, as it was only two blocks from her front door. I took a seat at the counter, and Kathy gave me a refill in my Styrofoam cup before she spoke.

  “What’ll be, Jake? The usual?” She planted herself on the other side of the varnished bar, one hand on her wide hip, the other holding a coffeepot. Her black hair was tied back tight and her face already glistened with heat. A seasoned restaurant warrior.

  “I’ll take an order of immortality with dry toast.”

  “Sorry. Just served our last order. Guy sat in the stool you’re in right now. He was faster than you, though. Took a double order of bacon and buttered toast with it.” She never hesitated or smiled.

  “You’re killing me, Kathy, and that’s why I need that last order so bad.”

  She turned without asking me anything else.

  A few minutes later, two eggs over easy, crisp bacon, home fries, and a glass of water with two lemon wedges landed in front of me. She placed a small red bowl of sautéed diced onions next to my water glass. I dumped the onions over the home fries and eggs and topped it all with a generous sprinkling of pepper. The golden-brown potatoes that had an incestuous relationship with hot potato chips were the first to go. A guy to my left wore a black Hog’s Breath T-shirt. He had french toast. It took everything I am and will ever be to refrain from reaching over and grabbing a slice. I got out my notepad to jot down possible methods to infiltrate and infringe upon the world of Raydel Escobar. Fifteen minutes later I strode out the door with a blank notepad and one idea.

  I reached for my phone and called PC.

  CHAPTER 6

  Escobar

  Escobar sipped his bitter Cuban coffee and chased it with a drag from his Montecristo. His swim was over, the sun was out, the music was on, and breakfast was in the wings. It was the perfect sybaritic manner in which to commence a day. Raydel Escobar was a man who enjoyed his senses.

  He stood with his back to the Gulf of Mexico, faced his zero edge pool and home, and took another suck on the moist Connecticut-shade wrapper. He smoked two number fours a day, but he counted them as one. Sophia constantly nagged him that even one a day was foolish and insisted on him only smoking half a cigar if he so desperately needed to light up twice.

  He did so desperately need to light up twice a day, and so each day he tossed the last half of two Montecristos. But not today. Not yesterday either. Sophia split for two nights and wouldn’t return until late in the afternoon. She was scouting for a new dress and Escobar didn’t understand why the hell she had to go clear to Naples to buy an evening gown. But she and two friends had taken off, chatting nonstop like chipmunks as they swept out the front door. Had to admit, though, the place was a little less lively when she wasn’t around.

  He viewed Natalie’s flawless glistening back through his exhaled smoke and thought what an enticing painting it would make.

  “What time does Henriques get in?” Elvis asked.

  “He’ll be here in an hour. Where’s breakfast?” Escobar asked his bodyguard, valet, and secretary.

  It was a simple arrangement. Elvis had been bouncing for him a little under a year when he got caught—not for the first time—with a little weed in his car. Escobar enjoyed playing chess with Elvis and respected the way he dressed for the job. Elvis always showed up early and locked the doors when he left. He treated the club like he’d found his life’s mission and never uttered a profane word within its walls. He’d even organized the windowless office and found a box of large yellow envelopes that had belonged to Escobar’s father. Escobar kept them and placed them on the shelf next to his father’s ancient blue Smith Corona typewriter. Escobar dug Elvis’s unswerving loyalty and was also damn tired of hiring new bouncers every six months.

  He went to bat for Elvis.

  He passed some crisp bills and soft snatch to horny cops who frequented the Welcome In. They, in return, dropped the drug charge, but told him to watch himself; Elvis, aka Terrance Bowles, was still the prime suspect in two unsolved murders. The murder rap didn’t bother Escobar. Anyone who changed their name from Terrance to Elvis was good in his book.

  Escobar told Elvis to move in and gave him food, use of the cars, and a half-inch of fifties every Friday. In return, Elvis gave him twenty-four hours a day. Every day.

  Sophia voiced displeasure, but you can’t please everyone.

  “Olivia said it’ll be out in five,” Elvis said. “Why’s he coming?”

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” Escobar grunted and sat down at the round teak table under the red umbrella. “How come Alejo didn’t hose down the pool this morning?”

  “You ask him, boss. Maybe he just ran out of steam. Why don’t you get someone younger?”

  “Don’t talk like that, Elvis, Alejo’s got real Cuba la sangre.”

  “I’m just sayin—”

  “Don’t be saying anything,” Escobar said.

  Olivia paraded out from the house with a tray and plopped it in front of Escobar, making certain it rattled as it hit the table. He snuffed out his cigar and then piled his plate with scrambled eggs and salmon, fresh fruit, and toast. Olivia didn’t say anything but turned and walked back toward the house. Escobar noticed that she’d gotten more reclusive the last few times that Sophia was gone and Natalie stayed at the house. Olivia had a good twenty years on Sophia, and he’d recently detected them talking less about housework and more about whatever the fuck women discussed. He didn’t think she’d say anything to his wife of five years and wasn’t sure he gave a damn if she did. But for added precaution, Escobar recently surprised her with a generous pay raise. She had plenty to lose if she ever crossed him. Still, her attitude was challenging.

  “You want her over here?” Elvis asked as he took some eggs for himself after Escobar was finished. There was never enough to take as much as Escobar did, as if Olivia was offering a silent protest for having to cook for more than her paymaster.

  “Let her burn.”

  “Natalie, get over here,” Elvis shouted.

  Natalie Binelli rolled over on her side, and her large, suntanned breasts spilled over onto the cream white chaise lounge. Her small brown nipples made her breasts seem even that much fuller. She held the pose for a moment to make sure the men knew how lucky they were, and then put on the gold top of her suit. She put on her leather pumps and, like a model on a runway, sashayed over to the table. The easy morning breeze brushed her auburn hair.

  “Elvis, pass me those eggs, will you please?” Natalie asked. Escobar had noticed their looks, mostly hers, when Elvis did an hour of weights on the veranda in the late morning after his run, his hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, his shirt discarded on the ground. Natalie took a pitiful amount of eggs, didn’t touch the bread, and added some fresh fruit, mostly watermelon, to her own plate.

  “You need to eat something, baby, you’re going to turn into fuckin’ Karen Carpenter,” Escobar said.

  “Who you talking about?” Natalie asked as she took her hand across her forehead and swept her bangs away.

  “You.”

  “What do I have to do with a carpenter?”

  “Jesus H. Never mind. Remember, you’ve got till noon.” She seemed so damned stupid sometimes, almost like she was goading him.

  “I know, Raydel. You told me three times yesterday.”

  “Yeah? I meant to tell you four times.”

  Natalie’s shoulders slumped in an exaggerated fashion, but then she rallied.

  “You going to tell me you’re looking forward to her coming
back, that it hasn’t been nice?” Natalie said, going on the offense and sitting up straight. He had sucked them so hard he was surprised they were still there in the morning.

  “It’s been wonderful, honey. I’m sure we’ll do it again.”

  “I’ll take you at noon,” Elvis said.

  “I got some things to do today. Let’s leave at eleven,” Natalie said.

  Escobar wish she’d at least put a shirt on over her suit when at the table. He was going to say something about her leaving, but decided to grant her dignity and allow her the last line on the subject. Her showing him that she had other things in life besides lying around offering her greased body to the Florida sun.

  “When are we getting the rugs in?” Elvis asked.

  “Next few days,” Escobar said.

  “You want me to get Cruz to help, same as last time?”

  “Same as last time, we won’t know till the day itself.”

  “You boys and your rugs,” Natalie said. “Why do some come by boat and who is Cruz?”

  “We just bring the rare rugs in by boat,” Elvis said.

  Escobar cut Elvis a glance. “Guy show up last night?”

  “Sure,” Elvis said, “but do we need him? That firm doesn’t even send the same guy every night and I got to explain the whole routine.”

  “That’s a problem?”

  “No. I just—”

  “Doesn’t do any good to take extra precaution after we have an issue. I’ll tell them to stick to the same guy. If you see Alejo, have him hose down this area, even in the sun. And have him clean the chess pieces so they look good for the party.”

  “Raydel?” Natalie asked. “Why don’t you let me have a rug for my apartment?”

  “I told you, baby. I’m just the middleman for the rare ones. I ship them out soon as they come in.”

  “Why don’t you get them delivered to your warehouse like your other rugs?”

  “Why don’t you eat your eggs?”