The Second Letter

by Robert Lane

  Elvis finished a mouthful of eggs and said, “And if you push Mendis too far?”

  “He’ll appease me just to keep Kittredge in his pocket.”

  “You’d run that risk with Walter Mendis?”

  I don’t have a choice, Escobar thought, if I want to be the man walking through the door. But he didn’t share that with Elvis. He just said, “Call Travis.”

  “We run our plan?” Elvis asked.

  “Run the plan. He’s pompous, conceited, and blows enough gas to float a hot air balloon. After what he did to Kittredge, he deserves this. If he doesn’t bite, I’ll come clean with him.”

  “I’ll be waiting for him.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Elvis was waiting for me on Escobar’s driveway when I brought the front bumper of my truck to within a few inches of his knees. That’s not entirely true either. He jumped back a few feet. Then I stopped the truck a few inches from his knees.

  He asked me where the little Lexus was and I told him I was saving it to drive up his ass. He wished me good luck with that. I said it was a lot bigger than the green bananas he moaned with. He said it took one to know one. I said the Lexus was a greased primer; the big act was when I ripped him a new exit hole with the truck. He smiled and said there was a good chance he was my father because he rode my mother like a fat cow. It was a pleasant late morning and baby birds were chirping. The driveway was still wet from a hose-down and it glittered in Mr. Bright and Happy Sun.

  There’s nothing quite like a verbal enema to start your day.

  “Mr. Escobar is waiting for you,” he said.

  “Mr. Escobar isn’t handling this the way I would,” he said. I was slightly annoyed that Elvis was the one to wind down our potty mouth sophomoric duel. I wanted to be the mature one and quit first.

  “Mr. Escobar is keeping you alive.”

  “Perhaps he’s doing the same for you.”

  “And all these years I’ve been appreciative of my heart.”

  Elvis had called and informed me that Escobar required my presence. I said my last trip was a waste. He said he personally didn’t care if I showed up or not; he was just doing his job. Regardless of whether I received the letter or not, Garrett and I planned to enter the house at night. PC and Boyd were watching the grounds and reported that they saw no one leave or arrive, nor had the boats moved. We assumed the two young girls were being held pending arrangements to abuse them, move them, or kill them.

  Possibly all three.

  “He’s waiting for you out back,” Elvis said and motioned toward the paver walkway that circumvented the house.

  “I’d like to go through the house if it’s all the same to you. I love experiencing the beauty that dirty money buys.” I was hoping to get some sense of where they might hold the girls and was surprised when Elvis told me to come to Escobar’s to collect the letter. Then again, he had no reason to suspect that I knew about his human trafficking sidebar.

  Elvis remained motionless at the black wrought iron gate and extended his arm. I brushed past him and around the house. Raydel Escobar sat at the table under the red umbrella. He was smoking a cigar and had a coffee cup in front of him. Morning stimulants. I took the seat across from him with my back to the Gulf.

  A large and faded envelope rested on the table. It appeared to be sealed. I wondered whose lips had last graced its parchment. I thought of Dorothy Harrison.

  “You never read it?” I asked.

  “Read what?”

  “The letter in that envelope. Did you open and read it?”

  “No. Just gave them the address and the names on the envelope.”

  I glanced at the envelope: 1961, Dulles, Rusk, and McNamara. Dulles, as Garrett and I had discussed, was head of the CIA and leftover from Ike’s band. Rusk and McNamara were Johnny’s boys. A republican-appointed head of the CIA and the democratic head of State and Defense. I could still feel the hate. I assumed that Dulles considered Rusk and McNamara to be high IQ lightweights. Especially McNamara. Bobby-Mic was one of the whiz kids and his resume for secretary of defense duties highlighted his success with the Ford Falcon. In America, that made him an expert on how many Charlies to incinerate.

  “And they knew it came from the old stone church?”

  “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

  “Naturally. But they would have figured that out. Must be a smoking howitzer to rattle Uncle Sam. Tell me, Escobar, how did a nice, run-of-the-mill, blackmailing businessman like you end up with an official government document from Sputnik days?” Sputnik was actually 1957, but I didn’t expect Escobar to call me on that.

  “I found it on the street. I told the IRS what it looked like and where I found it. I hadn’t a clue if it was even worth the phone call. Two hours later a blocked number called and told me not to open it. Said he could care less about the IRS.”

  I granted him a few measures then said, “That’s not all he said.”

  Escobar matched my pause with one of his own. “This country isn’t as nice as we think it is.”

  “Shocking.”

  “Are you behind the phone call?”

  “More like an instrument of the call.”

  “You seem to want this very badly,” he said.

  “You seem equally intent on destroying yourself.”

  “Why do you presume to know so much about me, Mr. Travis?”

  “Maybe it’s because you know so little about yourself.”

  “How do I know that you’ll deliver the letter to the proper authorities?”

  “How do I know that you’re not running a meth lab in your house?” Or importing girls and selling them, I wanted to add, but caught my tongue in time. A major achievement for me. I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the attack plan for tonight and certainly didn’t want him to add extra security or be on heightened alert. I had thought of making an anonymous call to the cops, but Morgan convinced me otherwise.

  Morgan had plans for the two young girls in the house. He had convinced Garrett and me that hell on earth awaited the two girls in Escobar’s house if they were returned to the parents who sold them or turned their heads when they were kidnapped. I didn’t question his conviction. He had sailed the Caribbean for over thirty years and I had reason to believe that he had rescued children before. I knew an Italian woman on St. Kitts who ran a one-room restaurant. She also had a hoard of foster children whom Morgan had intimate knowledge of and who greeted him enthusiastically. I was suspicious that he had deposited a few at her doorstep.

  “Will the man who advised me not to open the letter call again?” Escobar asked. Something about his tone seemed contrived, but I let it go.

  “Raydel.” I leaned in across the table. “I know you don’t like me, know you don’t trust me, and I know you wished I had a fatal accident on the way over this morning, but believe me for one thing and it is this: those people aren’t the postman, they don’t ring twice.”

  “All three of your ‘knows’ are correct. Are we done here? I have other things to attend to.”

  “You haven’t offered me anything to eat.”

  “Nor will I. Your boorish attitude is wearing.”

  “Boorish?”

  “Elvis will show you the way out.”

  “Boorish? Now, that one hurt. And it’s the second time this week. I liked you better when you had a houseful of guests.”

  “I’ve never been fond of you.”

  “That’s the first sign of intelligence you’ve displayed.”

  “I assume I’ll have the pleasure of never seeing you again.”

  “I have a proposition for you. But you need to throw a little hospitality my way. I’m parched,” I said.

  Escobar took a moment. Smoke seeped out of his mouth. Garrett had received a call from the colonel whose tone and urgency had strangely dissipated. Apparently the US government does negotiate. Told you. They were willing to work with Escobar on his tax problems if he belted a bar or two about Walter Mendis. It wou
ldn’t work. Escobar couldn’t divulge information about Mendis without implicating himself in the skin trade.

  “Elvis,” he started in cautiously and kept his eyes on mine, “get our friend here a drink.”

  “See, I knew we could do it,” I said.

  “Do what?”

  “Be friends. Hey, King, a morning beer would be swell,” I said, but didn’t grant Elvis the courtesy of looking at him while I spoke.

  Elvis reached into the refrigerator behind the outside bar and threw me a bottle that I caught with my left hand. I opened it using the side of the table and left a noticeable mark on the unblemished wood surface. The cap fell on the ground. Elvis remained leaning against the bar and to the left behind Escobar.

  “What is your proposition?” Escobar asked.

  “How’s that again?”

  “You said you had a proposition,” he said with irritation.

  “Christ, the stuff I say.”

  It was just the three of us, which was no match. I could knock Yogi and Boo-Boo’s heads together and hand them over to Mr. Ranger and then look for the girls. There was an armed guard at the gate, but I presumed he was the type to run at the first pop of a gun. However, presuming someone’s action while they hold a butter knife offers an entirely different set of scenarios than presuming their actions while they are in possession of a loaded rifle and being employed to protect the grounds. I wanted to keep it simple. Get the letter—check that box off. Return under cover of dark, get the girls—there goes another box. I took a long pull from the bottle neck. It was cold and tasted good. I’d have to consider resetting Tinker Bell.

  “What do you have to offer me?” Escobar asked. He blew smoke in my face.

  “I love the smell of dirty money in the morning. You don’t do Wagner, do you?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “‘Ride of the Valkyries’?”

  He stared at me and launched another cloud in my direction. Enough of that. “Here’s the deal,” I said and leaned over the table invading his space. “We’d like you to tell us about Walter Mendis. You see, the government doesn’t really have interest in half-breed scum like you. They’re after the men whose big banging brass balls they can hear from a mile away. You serve up Mendis and part of that seven million is forgiven.”

  Escobar hesitated. “I’m not interested.”

  “Good move.” I leaned back into the chair. I was there to offer the deal, not sell it. “I was going to advise you against it, us being friends and all. You sing on a guy like Mendis and he’ll come after you like an alligator that hasn’t had a bite in five months. You’ll end up buried at sea, which is highly preferable over what will happen to you in the US prison system.”

  “Elvis will show you the way out,” he repeated.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I have higher aspirations for my final number than suffering a fatal heart attack at two a.m., falling off the head, and landing in a pool of my vomit.”

  “The hell you talking about?”

  “Forget it.”

  He blew more smoke in my face. I was ready to sign up for a class action lawsuit. Like a knight, Elvis moved three spaces, two, and then one. It put him next to me. Escobar leaned back and put his cigar in the Copacabana ashtray. I wanted it. Not as bad as I wanted the guy’s french toast at breakfast a few days ago, but that ashtray would look mighty fine on my table in the screened porch. He took a sip of his coffee.

  I stood and said, “It’s been a pleasure. Where is Sophia? In the house kneading meatloaf for dinner?”

  Escobar placed his coffee mug on the table, rose, and faced me.

  “She’s out of town until tomorrow. I’ll make sure to tell her that you came by and that you are not the charming man you pretend to be.”

  “I hate to napalm your dreams, but she will do a hell of a lot better than you.” His eyes narrowed and he looked at me for a moment and neither of us spoke. I picked up the envelope. “I’ll see myself out.” I walked away with Elvis trailing me.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Travis, or whoever you are. I trust I won’t see you again. If I do it would be a serious blunder on your part,” Escobar said from behind me. I spun around.

  “Remember Tartakower?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Our chess friend.”

  “Ah, yes. The next-to-the-last mistake man.”

  “He also said, ‘The blunders are all on the board, waiting to be made,’ and ‘chess is a fairy tale of 1001 blunders.’ If you’re into blunders, and you’re the one who brought it up, you should bear those in mind.”

  I didn’t wait for an answer but turned and walked out on the same paver brick sidewalk I had entered on. An old man coiled up a green garden hose at the far end of the pool and I did a double take, but decided I couldn’t place him. Elvis shadowed me while Dusty Springfield’s “The Windmills of Your Mind” faded slowly behind me. If I spent over a day in his house, I’d think Tricky Dicky was still president.

  As the sun pressed into my upper back, I marveled that something so light as the letter could carry such weight. Like a small word, but not even that.

  Only a letter.

  CHAPTER 23

  “Did you read it?” Kathleen asked.

  “Not yet.” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve got other issues that are more important right now.”

  “I thought you were dying to open it.”

  I had swung by her house and we were headed downtown to meet Garrett and Morgan for an early dinner. They had crewed together on a race at the yacht club. I’d left the envelope between my mattress and box spring. I’d told Garrett where it was in case a bolt of lightning took me out.

  “I’ll open it this evening.”

  “What other issues?”

  “When does Sophia get back?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow afternoon. We’re tackling bathroom tile next.”

  “She’s going to have some other issues to tackle.”

  “You keep saying that and you haven’t said a thing.”

  I remained silent and pulled into the valet stand on Beach Drive. We hadn’t decided on a restaurant, but the stand was conveniently located in the middle of the strip. I handed my keys to the young man and we ambled over to the hostess stand at South Sea Grill. It was our default location, the place where we ended up when we never reached a decision where to go. Much of what comprises our lives is a default, although not as easily identifiable as a restaurant.

  “Outside table for two,” I said.

  The heavyset yet attractive young lady glanced up at me. Her hair looked like she stuck her finger in a socket and her makeup was one layer too many.

  “Certainly,” she said.

  We recognized each other at the same time. She was the bartender at Escobar’s house during the fund-raiser for Kittredge. She glanced at my woman.

  “That’s the lucky one?”

  “Yes. My wife and mother of our eight children,” I said.

  She smiled at me. “Of course. Do you do threesomes?”

  “You just keep coming, don’t you?”

  “Hmmm…that would be my dream.”

  I chuckled. She was fun. “Well, I like your attitude, but we were really just thinking of a four top.”

  “Wow. Not sure I’m even familiar with that. Want to tell me about it?”

  “A table with four chairs.”

  “That’s all? There’re so many more possibilities with that, you must be joking.” She battered her eyes at me.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’m serious too,” she said.

  “Strange we have the same name, but I got it first. Just a table, please.”

  She held my gaze for a moment and then looked down at her seating chart as if it was a Ouija board. “That one will be fine,” I said, and pointed to a high top table that backed up to the front of the restaurant. By sitting high, we could see over Straub Park and out to the waters of Tampa Bay.

  “Cert
ainly,” she said. I wondered if she used that word a lot. She glanced up from her chart. “This way please.” We followed her to where I instructed and took our seats on the black wrought iron chairs with blue cushions.

  “Serious, I’ll be at the hostess stand if you need further assistance.” She turned and drifted away, leaving only her back if I cared to reply, which I did not.

  “Who’s your new friend?” Kathleen asked.

  “Someone I ran into at Escobar’s. I told her we were married and we adopted autistic children.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “What other issues, Jake?”

  I gazed at the art museum across the street. A horse-drawn carriage with no passengers went by. The woman holding the reins wore a skirt and cowboy boots. She looked sad. Despondent. The horse had a bag attached to its hindquarters and it slowly passed in front of the museum. I wondered if that was art. I glanced back at her and found her bright yet quiet eyes, waiting.

  “The girl at the hostess stand—do you think she works on her hair to get that mess, or do you think she has an aversion to brushes?”

  She looked at me and said nothing.

  “I’d rather not say,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “A light heart lives long.”

  Our waiter, Brian, uncorked the bottle and offered me a taste. Kathleen had befriended Brian and his partner Steven a few months ago, and they were pumped that she was moving downtown. “Cheers, Brian,” I said. “It’s never about the bottle, it’s the hand that pours it.”

  “My,” he said, “your boorishness might be worth it.” He rotated to another table after he filled our glasses.

  “Am I wearing that word around my neck?”

  “No. That was on his own. Now give it to me straight and neat.”

  A midnight blue Bentley came down Beach Drive. I wondered if the guy driving it got his money from honest means. You never know. “When Garrett and I staked out Escobar’s house the other night,” I started in, “we witnessed something that altered the landscape. He’s into human trafficking. It appears that he’s the middleman using his boat to bring them from offshore and then loading them into a van. We’re going back tonight. We’re not done with him.”