Gagliano,Anthony - Straits of Fortune.wps

by Unknown

  walked over and asked me for a cigarette by forming a peace sign with his index and middle fingers and moving it back and forth in front of his lips. I patted my empty pockets, and he left me, looking only mildly disappointed. After all, he was in a place where disappointment was as chronic as the sunlight. I sat there and watched as six of the men marched out from under the canopy and began playing soccer with the defeated husk of a basketball. I have to get the hell out of here, I thought. I'll go nuts if I have to sit here much longer. I glanced around, but all I saw was razor wire, low clouds, and unhappy people. Then, quite suddenly, the fatigue I had been holding at bay with fear and adrenaline swept over me, and I decided not to fight it any longer, so I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and tried not to think.

  I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, a guard was shaking my shoulder and telling me that my lawyer was there to see me. There was a crack of thunder in the west, and the wind picked up speed. I got quickly to my feet and followed the guard as he walked toward the main building. We had all but made it to the gate when the first heavy drops of rain began to hit the ground. I was led into a large, rectangular room with rows of benches and tables and bars on the windows as a reminder of how things were. The guard at the door patted me down before I went in and told me I would be patted down again on my way out. His voice was devoid of inflection; it was the voice of an automaton who had repeated the same words so many times that he was no longer capable of hearing his own boredom. I would not have traded his life for my own despite the alternative. Even the prisoners were better off. They could at least go home, and home, regardless of how much a hell it may turn out to be, still possesses certain latent pos- 114

  sibilities. The guard was just waiting for a pension to set him free; his was a life sentence, and time was a conveyor belt heading a day at a time toward the pit. The room, which smelled of cigarettes and sweat, was nearly empty, and I saw Susan Andrews almost as soon as I walked in. She was seated at a table, her head down, reading what looked to be a brief. There was a bulging leather valise sitting on the table beside her like a mascot, and a can of soda was cupped absentmindedly in her hand. I walked over and sat on the bench across from her. She didn't look up immediately the way most people would have in a place like Krome, and I was reminded of how fierce her concentration could be. She made one violent slash with her pen, then lifted her head and smiled at me. She had a beautiful face, but the smile ruined it, at least temporarily. The smile she flashed was thoroughly imper- sonal, a practiced gesture, a concession to civility, a bright coin tossed without consequence to the beggars of the world. There was nothing for Jack Vaughn in that smile, but per- haps I was hoping for too much under the circumstances. Then the smile vanished and something human came into her expression, and I thought she looked sad and drawn out, though her beauty was still vibrant enough to hide it, except if you had met her back when I had. She smiled for real this time and shook her head as she studied me. "You look like hell," she said. "I didn't expect you to make it down here until Monday." "I almost didn't. The prosecutor asked for a postponement in the case I'm trying. Seems someone down at the property room misplaced a few kilos of evidence. So here I am." She lifted the valise off the table and set it down beside her. "How's it going?" I asked. "You're asking me that?" I looked her over. She looked like money. Her days as a 115

  prosecutor were way behind her, and the drug money of her former adversaries was making her rich, one overpriced hour at a time. "How does it feel to be making decent money for a change?" I asked. She thought that over for a moment. "You may have trou- ble believing it, but in a lot of ways I liked being a prosecutor better." "No, I'm not surprised. You're the type that likes to get her hands dirty. Money can't change that, though that is a pretty nice suit you're wearing." "It's starting to come back to me now," she said, frown- ing. "What is?" "What it was I liked about you. Now, before we get too comfortable, tell me again how you wound up in the drink this morning with a man in a speedboat shooting at you." I told her almost everything but left out the juicy parts. It was just me, the kayak, and some good and bad luck mixed together. As for Williams, I told her I didn't have a clue. Maybe a case of mistaken identity. Lying to your lawyer was a dead-end street, but I couldn't very well tell her the truth. She would have wanted the whole story, and I could not yet afford to give it to her--especially as there was so much of it I didn't know myself. "A little suspicious, at least from a cop's point of view, but legally speaking it doesn't sound all that bad. Like I said on the phone, though, I can't do a thing until they bring you down to federal court for arraignment." "For smuggling?" "I know it's all bullshit, but they have to go through the motions." "How long am I supposed to sit here while they figure out I didn't do anything?" 116

  "Maybe it would help if you told them why that guy in the speedboat was shooting at you. That's really what they're after." Before I could answer, her expression changed and she stood up abruptly, the way you stand up in a bar when the time for talking has passed. I turned around and saw Inspec- tor Cortez walking toward us. His hands were in his pockets, and he was grinning cautiously. I glanced back at Susan. She looked like a tomahawk about to hurl itself across the room. "Well, now, what a surprise!" Cortez said. "Just couldn't stay away from me, could you, babe?" Never let it be said that time heals all wounds. Whoever said that must have suffered from acute amnesia. The lids of Susan's eyes lowered ever so slightly, and the corner of her mouth twitched. She leaned over and hoisted her valise onto the table, slipped the brief she'd been reading inside, and then, with very careful movements, fastened the straps again. She looked up at me. I stood. "I'll see you down at federal, Mr. Vaughn. Until then have a nice weekend." Susan came out from behind the bench and went by us like a cold wind from north of the Arctic Circle. The guard at the door started to say something to her but was enough of a survivor to let her pass unmolested. It was just as well he decided to do so, as very few of us are greatly improved by a quick knee directed at the scrotum. After she had left, Cortez turned to me. "You ever notice how some skirts make a woman's ass look bigger than it actually is?" he asked in a confidential tone. "I guess it depends on the cut." "She likes you. I could tell by the way she froze up when I came in. What were you two talking about?" "About me getting out of here, what else?" 117

  "I don't see you leaving, but don't worry, we'll take good care of you." I didn't say anything. They fed me a bologna sandwich and a cup of vegetable soup, after which the same guard led me back to the yard, and I walked around the perimeter of the fence for about half an hour, scoping out the barbed wire and not seeing any way through it. There was not much to like about the situation I was in. Williams was still on the loose and no doubt looking for Vivian and her brother, if indeed he hadn't already found them. Why he was after them, I didn't know. Then there was the question of the other fifty grand the Colonel owed me. If Williams had been telling the truth and he had ordered me killed, then the Colonel and I were overdue for a little chat. I was involved in some kind of scam, and I needed answers, none of which I was going to find at Krome. The smart thing to do was to wait it out for a few days and hope for low bail. That's what I would have recommended to anyone else. The problem was, it required the kind of patience I didn't have in my DNA. There had to be another option. Suddenly there were the sounds of sirens coming from beyond the fence. I turned and saw a crowd beginning to gather around a man lying on the ground over near the Quonset hut where I'd been sitting. It was the crazy German. He was on his back, his long, angular body possessed, it seemed, by spasms that were causing his legs to jerk and twitch every which way. The guards were blowing their whistles and trying to force the inmates away. Other guards were trying to hold the twitching man down. The gates on the other side of the yard swung open, and a red-and-white ambulance, its lights flashing, its sirens wail- ing, came rushing through. I glanced around. The guards and the other inmates were all distracted. I knew I was look- ing at the best chance of getting out of
that place I was likely 118

  to get. There would be trouble later, but later could wait. I began to walk as nonchalantly as I could toward the ambu- lance, just another curious man in a pale orange jumpsuit. The paramedics were very good, very fast. People don't give them enough credit. They had the German on a gurney within a minute of jumping out of the van. No one paid any attention to me as I edged ever so slowly toward the far side of the ambulance. All eyes were focused on the mad German. They were having a hard time strapping him down. He was screaming in his native tongue and thrashing around like a lunatic. I took a quick look around, then dropped to my knees, flattened myself out straight on the hot pavement, and rolled as quickly as I could under the ambulance. As I said, the paramedics were very good, very fast. The van bounced as they lifted and slid the gurney up and into the ambulance. I held on to the underside of the van and kept myself off the ground as much as possible by wedging my feet alongside the transmission and by using my arms to lift my back. Otherwise someone standing a bit away from the van might see me if they happened to look down. But luck- ily for me the van rode rather low to the ground and cast a considerable shadow. It was a hundred yards of hard, hot asphalt and potholes to the gate, and I knew I was going to lose some skin. If they hit a bump the wrong way, I might shake loose, but there was nothing else to do except try. I heard the driver's-side door open and close, then the same thing on the passenger side. The van sank a bit and bounced. I got ready. I reached up and got hold of a piece of the chassis and hoisted my back off the ground. The damned thing burned my hands, but I held on. The van shifted into gear and surged forward. We were moving fast now. My forearms were starting to ache from the strain of holding myself up, and I was be- 119

  ginning to sag at the middle. For the briefest of moments, my shoulders touched the ground, and if I hadn't found the strength to pull myself up again, my back would have been scraped down clean to the spine. Then we were through the gate. The muscles in my arms and legs were all used up, and I was going to have to let go whether I wanted to or not--but not at sixty-five miles an hour. What I needed was a stop sign or a traffic light or a sharp curve. Then I felt the van slow and veer slightly left, and I knew I had to let go then, before they came out of the turn. I let my feet hit the ground. My arms were over my head, and I was being dragged. Maybe we were doing thirty. I closed my eyes, let go, rolled to one side, and prayed that nothing on the chassis took my face off. Suddenly I was on my back in the middle of the road. I sat up in time to see an eighteen-wheeler coming fast. Maybe he saw me and maybe he didn't, but he didn't slow down. There was no time to stand up. I rolled left, and the truck went by like a giant bull. I got slowly to my feet and looked around. I was on a two- way road with nothing on either side of me except mangrove swamp. There were no streets signs, but I had a fairly good idea of where I was--in the middle of nowhere. The long day, the longest I'd had in quite a while, was heading west where the slate-colored storm clouds were massing and gathering their strength. It was still hot, but an unexpected breeze swirled through the air. It was going to rain big time, and soon. That far south there was very little traffic on the roads. It would be mostly trucks hauling produce up from the farms in the southern part of Miami-Dade County and maybe a few vans full of migrant laborers heading home. It didn't matter much. In my orange jumpsuit, the official uniform of illegal aliens, I couldn't afford to hitchhike. That meant I had 120

  to walk--but not along the road. The cops would be look- ing for me soon; that was for sure. There was also the truck driver of the eighteen-wheeler that had nearly flattened me to think about. He had probably seen me roll out of the way at the last moment, in which case he would simply be glad to have missed hitting me. Or he might decide to use his radio and call it in. Either way I had to get off the road. I limped into the mangrove swamp and headed east. It began to rain. I had no money, no ride, and no idea what I was going to do. It was slow going, and after an hour I began wondering if I'd made a mistake by busting out of Krome. But there was no way I could have sat still in there for days without going crazy. At least now I had a chance to get some answers. I could worry about the trouble I was in later. I was tired, thirsty, and, despite the soup and sandwich, still a bit weak from hunger, but at least I was moving. After another mile of the swamp, I came out onto a side road across the street from a shopping mall that with its neon lights and parking lot full of cars seemed like an oasis. I had never been so glad to see and smell a Burger King in my entire life. What I wanted most was a Whopper, a Coke, and a giant order of fries, but I was broke and still dressed in orange. That was going to have to change. I ran across the street and stood between a corrugated shed and the loading dock of a Kmart, where six or seven work- ers were loading boxes into the back of a trailer. A security guard appeared at the edge of the bay and looked casually in my direction. I nearly stopped walking. I wondered if he could see me from where he stood. I was almost tempted to turn around and look when he disappeared back inside the warehouse. My next concern was clothing. The orange jumpsuit I was wearing was a police magnet, and I needed to get rid of it as 121

  soon as possible. Then, across the lot, over near the fence, I spotted one of those giant green metal bins put out by the Police Athletic League for people to donate their old clothes. I headed for it through the last of the rain. There were only a few cars at that far end of the lot, mainly because it was exactly the kind of place where they tell you not to park if you want to avoid getting hit in the head and robbed. I was fairly certain that there were surveil- lance cameras covering the lot, but I was equally certain that the men watching them were not terribly observant. I reached the bin and casually stuck my hand into the opening, like a man trying to find a bar of soap in a bathtub filled with bubbles. I couldn't afford to be too selective, but all the same I needed something that fit. The clothes were just jammed in there, and it took me a while to find a shirt I could wear. It was one of those sky blue polyester num- bers out of the seventies that looked as though it were made of neon, complete with an extra-wide pimp collar and two missing buttons. I stared at it for a second and was tempted to try my luck again. Then I decided that this was no time to get picky and threw it on the ground, then reached back into the bin and tried to score a pair of pants. I had just gotten hold of a promising pair when a police car cruised silently into the parking lot. Luckily, I was looking in that direction when it appeared; otherwise he might have caught me with my back turned. Even so, I had just enough time to get behind the bin before the cop car turned right and edged slowly around the perimeter of the lot. I crouched there for five minutes, waiting for him to complete his tor- tured sweep of the area, and then I heard his car's radio on the other side of the bin. He seemed to stay there a long time, but it was only because he was moving so slowly. A moment later he slid past where I was, and eventually the sound of the radio dispatcher's voice faded away. 122

  Somebody must have found a cache of polyester in an attic somewhere, because the pants were as synthetic as the shirt I had found. The only good thing about them was that they were black. I went behind the bin and changed clothes quickly. It was only then I realized that the pants were too short by a good five inches. It was as though a levee had busted and I had just recently emerged from the flood zone. I decided I could live with them and hurriedly stuffed the jumpsuit into the bin. In five minutes time, I had gone from looking like an escaped illegal alien to looking like an es- caped mental patient--not exactly the transformation I'd hoped for, but still an improvement. Now I needed some money. I went around to the other side of the mall and into the Winn Dixie supermarket. I didn't like what I was about to do, but I really didn't have much choice. I found the aisle with the canned meats, took a can of Spam down off the shelf, tore the little key off the top, put it in my pocket and walked out the front door. No one gave me a second look. Then I went outside and began looking for a parking meter. I had to walk a few blocks in the rain, but I finally found a row of them behind a post office. I w
as about to commit my third felony in twenty-four hours. I got out the little T-shaped key and jimmied open the meter. I knew how to do it because in my rookie year as a cop I had busted a homeless guy who was using the same method up in Manhattan. He and his buddies had stolen over six thousand dollars in quarters by the time we caught them, and it had cost the borough a pretty penny to alter the meters to keep that from happening again. Five minutes and a little finagling later, I had ten dollars in quarters weighing me down. I could have taken more, but I felt bad enough taking what I did. I went back to the mall and found myself at the rear en- 123

  trance of the food court. People flashed by without looking at me. I glanced around in search of the restrooms. I had an irresistible urge to see what I looked like, mainly be- cause I was feeling somewhat maniacal and wanted to know whether I looked that way as well. There was no one in the men's room, so I was able to check myself out in the mirror without interruption. I was dark and windburned, like a man who has walked a long way through a desert without adequate water, and my cheekbones were getting close to the outside air. I needed a shave and my hair was sticking out in various directions, but it was my eyes that scared me the most. They were feral eyes, the eyes of a desperate man. Any cop worth his pay would just get a look at them and his radar sense would be immediately set off. If the eyes really are the windows to the soul, then I needed to find some shades pretty fast. I washed my face in the sink and used the water to smooth down my hair, which helped some but did nothing about my expression. I went into a stall and sat down on the bowl, although not for the usual reason. The men's room in your average American mall is hardly the best place for meditat- ing, and the smell of shit does not entice the spirit, but it was as close to an ashram as I was going to find. I shut my eyes and got my breathing under control until my heart rate was the only sound in the universe. Being tired helped, and I nearly fell asleep, but I managed to get to the place where I was floating, where the world was gone. I stayed there for ten minutes, coming out of it only when a man let himself into the stall next to mine and began farting like a Gatling gun. I looked in the mirror before I left and was pleased to see that the animal sheen had died down a bit. I needed a glass of bourbon to brace me, but I had to settle for a pair of very thin hamburgers, some fries, and a small Pepsi. I counted out the change with the patience of a man 124