Hot Scores

by Bud Connell

  Grand Cayman was beginning to look pretty good, probably the first place the hoods would look; so I decided the better place to hide was simply tooling around Florida for a few days like a couple of New York gawkers until we could see a full picture of what we were up against.

  I eased out of bed, careful not to wake Sleeping Beauty, kissed her lightly on the forehead, slipped into yesterday’s clothes, and left Katya a note that said I’d be back in less than an hour with real coffee and Egg McMuffins.

  Katya’s two suitcases remained low profile under a pile of clothes and I lingered for a moment on the way out, eyeballing the two moneybags for my own peace of mind. Then I pulled the motel door quietly shut, making sure the Do Not Disturb sign was on the knob.

  First things first. I hit the main drag and purchased a couple of Hawaiian sport shirts, big sunglasses, and a New York Mets cap. Then I popped over to Walgreen’s on North Federal Highway and bought blond hair dye, red hair dye, and a pair of scissors. Katya was not going to be happy, and she was gonna pitch a major bitch.

  Final stop, McDonalds.

  +++

  “Poo on you Joe Oaks! Do you know how much time it takes to grow hair this long? About five years!” Katya, as I predicted, was throwing her hissy fit.

  “Look, it’s a one-time deal, and besides it’ll grow back before you know it.” I kept a cool head, as usual.

  “You want me to cut off over four years and look like Buster Brown with red hair? No deal, no damn deal!”

  “How about a compromise, cut it short, but keep it blond, and make it look youngish like the kids do. Do that and I’ll go blond, too.” Give a little, get a little—maybe.

  She screwed up her mouth and looked away, at least giving my proposal some thought time. I reached for an Egg McMuffin.

  “Gimme one of those,” she said, and I could tell the wheels were turning, maybe in my direction.

  +++

  My phone beeped another message from Ramon, which I had no intention to answer, and that reminded me to call AT&T.

  After changing both our cell phone numbers with no forwarding, I was watching Fox News and wondering how the blonde anchor packed all those good looking body parts into one tight green dress when the bathroom door flew open and Katya, nude to the world, announced her creation.

  “TAH-DAAAAH!” She flailed her arms out to her sides, presentation style, and stood there with a big smile on her face.

  Well, I gotta tell you, she looked hotter than a sharp stick at a weenie roast. Short blond hair with spikes, like the kids at the rock concerts. That hairdo was bound to draw attention to her mop instead of her face, and there was no way anyone would recognize the old Katya unless they slowly studied her ample features.

  “I don’t… I can’t believe that’s really you!” I said.

  “We’ll just have to be careful around cops, so you don’t get arrested for being with an underage girl. Now, get your shirt off, Mr. Joe Oaks. You are about to become my hot blond boyfriend.”

  “No red spikes.”

  “No promises.”

  +++

  Katya… she even did my chest hair, and I gotta admit, I felt pretty hotcha after the beauty treatment.

  While she dressed and packed, the new blond Joe Oaks, donned in a new Hawaiian sport-shirt and sporting a new pair of Florida sunglasses, rented a neat little storage unit a couple miles down on South Dixie Highway. We hauled all our extra crap to it, and were tooling up I-95 by late-morning with the intention of heading to Disney World.

  One thing for certain, we had to find a place to hide the money, and soon, because it was way below stupid to be traveling around happy-go-lucky with millions of hot bucks in suitcases—more like brain dead, or dying to be more accurate; but I’m not known as Joe Oaks, the Promo King for twiddling my digits.

  We headed north and just past Boca Raton, that’s when I sprung my big one. I already researched Florida law on my laptop back at the motel when Katya was in the shower. There was no waiting period and no blood test for non-residents.

  “Let’s get married.”

  She just turned and looked at me with her mouth open. It was a sizable pause and I could tell she was thinking long and hard.

  48 – Footloose, Everybody Cut Footloose

  “When we do it, get married that is, I want things to be normal, and not under a huge black cloud, like now,” she said.

  Katya was right. We had too many plates spinning and we had to keep them all in the air. We let a few miles pass with me staring at the road ahead and Katya staring out the passenger window.

  “You got a driver’s license?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sure, of course.”

  “What state?” she asked in a soft thoughtful voice I’d not heard before.

  “California. How about you?”

  “Yeah, a Michigan license, why?”

  “Because you didn’t want to drive the Bentley, that’s why.”

  “I don’t like to drive, period. It’s a man’s job; but that’s not the point. What’s the name on your license?”

  “My real name, Joseph Aaron Oaksley.”

  “That’s good. That’s really, really good.”

  “Why. Why is it so good?”

  “You become Aaron Oaksley and I become Lucy Bobo.” She had my full attention.

  “And?”

  “We rent safety deposit boxes at four banks, big enough to hold two million each.”

  My doll not only had the looks, she had the moxie.

  +++

  By five o’clock, we’d stashed eight million bucks in four banks between Delray Beach and West Palm, each safety deposit box with joint access by Lucille Bobo and/or Aaron Oaksley; the “and/or”, according to Katya, in case something happened to one of us, and needless to say, we held back ten-thousand cash to blow on our Florida vacation, plus ninety-thousand for an emergency stash, which we hid in the lining of my luggage. We agreed not to go near the banks until we knew it was totally safe to do it.

  “When we’re not banking, I’ll be Katya—and you’ll still be my Joe Oaks, won’t you, Joe baby?”

  “Always, always. I’m yours, Katya.”

  We were now just a couple of people from out of town vacationing in the water-bound Sunshine State of Florida, and it looked like clear sailing ahead.

  49 – Big Ass Stuff

  My doll and I stayed in the best rooms at the best hotels, and hit every top restaurant north of Miami. We funned it up at Disney World, Epcot Center, Hollywood Studios, Universal Studios, SeaWorld, Silver Springs, and dozens of Florida’s little side attractions. We paid for everything with cash and we had the time of our lives.

  Two weeks later, along about noon on Friday, we decided to see the oldest city in America, St. Augustine, and we were making good time on I-95, but we needed a fill up. So, I signaled and pulled into an overpriced gas station, which we, as captives of the Interstate Highway System, were obliged to patronize.

  “I’m so happy, Joe. I’m so happy.” Katya said over and over to the point that I believed it.

  And I was getting pretty happy myself as I yanked the steering wheel to the left and straightened out under the canopy covering a line of a half-dozen gas pumps. I took the first open position, leaving the last pump behind me ready for the next Interstate sucker to have his wallet deflated by the over-inflated prices. And here he came; or they, up close and personal right behind me.

  It looked like the same dark blue Lincoln SUV that was parked next to us at the Ocala motel where we stayed last night. Shithouse mouse, that was way too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence.

  I looked down as I exited the Mustang, went straight for the cashier and flipped him a couple of twenties. My dark sunglasses let me check out the man and woman inside and they couldn’t see me eyeballing them. Strange though, both of them were looking straight at me, and at Katya, too, like we were sacks of Big Macs in a locker room full of football players.

  The guy in the driver’s seat op
ened the car door and unfolded, and he was a lot bigger than his face appeared through the SUV’s windshield. The woman kept looking back and forth between Katya and me, like she was some sort of serious sentry commissioned to kill if her prey tried to get away. I felt a cold chill run up and down my back and neck and into the base of my brain. What the hell was going on here?

  The big guy, two hundred pounds plus of muscle bulging a black t-shirt, came straight toward me, unsmiling, and he deliberately put his hand over my hand as I inserted the gas nozzle in the Mustang. I tilted my head up to face him with my mouth open, and he looked down at me except smiling now like he’d known me all his life.

  “We’re gonna get some big ass stuff handled, buddy-buddy, and you, minus your little girlfriend, are gonna chip in and help us get ‘er done.”

  50 – Falling Down a Rabbit Hole

  An eternity passed in my head before I could reason a comeback. It wasn’t very good, but it was the best I could do under the weird circumstances.

  “What are you talkin’ about?” If this was about the money, my instant MO was play dumb from git-go. “Who are you?”

  “I’m just a friendly DEA agent assigned to find out more about what you’ve been up to.”

  Oh crap, drugs. He let go of my hand and his smile faded as he took a step back and seemed to be looking for a reaction to dissect or read something into, so I continued to pump the gas and play it cool even though my mind was misfiring on all eight cylinders. I searched for just the right uninvolved-in-anything, good citizen comeback.

  “I—I just don’t know what you mean.” I looked into the Mustang, and Katya had turned around to see who was talking and her eyes were as big as saucers.

  “Well, let’s just say we invest a little time and see if we have reasons to explain things to each other.”

  “Explain what? We’re on vacation. Go away!”

  The big guy towered over me by at least ten inches and shook his head slowly from side to side.

  “Mr. Oaks, I don’t think you have a choice in this matter. We got a positive ID on your rental car license plate and we know who you are. Let’s just have a friendly little meeting. How about I join you for lunch, and perhaps we can answer each other’s questions over a sandwich and iced tea while my associate keeps your girlfriend company.”

  “I need to see your ID,” I said, like I knew what I was doing.

  He reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet and flipped it open in one smooth motion to reveal an official looking card showing his picture and Drug Enforcement Agency credentials. Full head of dark hair, dark green eyes that could bore right through you. He was the same tan ruggedly handsome guy all right, Travis Macintyre, Diversion Investigator.

  “What’s a Diversion Investigator?” I felt like I was falling down a rabbit hole.

  “Rogue pharmacies, Mr. Oaks, and their suppliers, that’s who we focus on.” He picked his words slowly like he was playing Scrabble for ten bucks a word. “Let me tell you right now, we know enough about your recent sales that if you talk freely it will go in your favor.”

  Did you ever have a feeling like brain freeze, and you weren’t drinking a Slurpee? Well, I was having it, solid ice, barely able to speak while playing high stakes with cards being dealt by a mystery dealer named Travis. There didn’t seem to be any alternative, so I said, “Where do you want to have lunch?”

  “A nice little place not too far north from here. My associate, Ms. Mason, will drive your car and follow us so we can talk on the way.” He motioned to the woman in the Lincoln Navigator and she nodded and started climbing out of the big SUV. “She’s with the Secret Service, so be real nice, y’all understand?”

  I nodded at the big guy, but didn’t know why. Secret Service, shithouse mouse. What was next?

  “I need to tell my girl it’s okay.” I didn’t ask permission, I turned and went straight to the Mustang’s driver’s window and leaned in so I could almost whisper.

  “These are federal agents and I don’t think they know about you. You are Catherine Bobo, and you don’t know anything. Okay?”

  Katya showed a big-eyed open-mouthed look like she understood absolutely nothing, and with good reason.

  “Play dumb! Got it?” I sounded agitated, but there was no other way. “We’re all going to lunch, she’s driving you in the Mustang and you’re following me and the other agent.” I pointed with my hitchhiker’s thumb back toward the Lincoln.

  A too long pause, and then she finally said, “I got it, okay.”

  I pulled out of the window and stood up straight just as the big brunette in the business suit who reminded me of the old movie star Jane Russell turned away from her brief chat with Macintyre.

  “Key’s in the ignition.” I tried to sound relaxed and she looked a hole straight through me, opened the door and slid under the steering wheel. It looked like she held out her hand and offered Katya an introduction; and with that I went back to where handsome dingleberry was standing.

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s go.”

  “You drive and I’ll give directions.”

  “I’ve never driven a Navigator before.”

  “You never drove a right hand drive Bentley before either. This is easier.”

  Holy crap. I didn’t say anything. I just opened the door and got into the driver’s seat, wondering how much more does this fed fuzz know.

  51 – Scoring Brownie Points

  We pulled around my Mustang and exited the service area. The women followed behind us.

  “Get back on I-95 northbound and get off at exit 284. We’re going to a little restaurant in Flagler Beach called Finn’s. They got a great seafood basket.” Agent Macintyre relaxed back in his seat and laced his fingers behind his head like a guy would do if he was gonna watch a ballgame on TV. “We’ll sit outside, away from other folks so we can talk in private.”

  After I made the exit, it was a little over two miles to the beach, and on the brief drive all he asked about was personal stuff. Did I have children, was I ever married, had I ever been in trouble with the government or police; and to all questions I gave a simple no, or not really, or I never really thought about it type answers. Maybe this not-so-accidental meeting wouldn’t be so bad after all, or good ol’ Travis was trying to make me feel comfortable and soften me up for the kill.

  He also told me that the other agent’s full name was Perri Mason, Perri with an “i” not a “y”, and not to make a comment about it because it was a sensitive point with her and it wouldn’t help my situation when she got around to asking her questions.

  “About what?” I asked.

  “She’ll have to cover that,” he said, and that answer made me quite a bit nervous. What could a Secret Service agent possibly want to know from me? I thought all they did was guard the President.

  +++

  We got an outside table in the far corner overlooking the beach and Perri Mason, Perri with an “i” not a “y”, took Katya inside and sat where I could barely see them, which made me quite a bit more nervous than I already was.

  A cute little waitress wearing a white tank top with a Finn’s logo on it slapped the menus down, and the G-man ordered the seafood basket and iced tea, and I said I’d have the same.

  “Let’s just get right down to the old nitty gritty,” Travis said. “Tell me about your job selling prescription drugs.”

  I took a few beats and thought about that particularly worded first salvo before answering. Whatever I said would be my word against Cahoone’s if they nailed him, and I’d take bets right now that Cahoone wouldn’t talk—about anything.

  “I resigned. I quit when I heard a rumor that some of the drugs I was selling were not the real thing.”

  The tanned fed boy looked down, made his mouth into a flattish upside down U and nodded slowly.

  “Good answer, Oaks. Too bad it’s not true.”

  “What part?”

  “You’re kidding, of course. I’m not gonna tell you; that’s
for you to wiggle out of, bro.”

  The old Joe Oaks rationale wasn’t dead yet. If he hadn’t interviewed Cahoone, and I don’t think he had, there was no way he could know I didn’t resign, so I took the remaining path.

  “Okay, I knew the drugs were probably phony early on, and my conscience wouldn’t allow me to continue selling them.”

  “That answer I’ll buy. Good job, Oaks. Let’s go to question number two. The girl, who is she, where’d she come from?”

  That one rocked me back. I had to cover what Katya might be saying, or cover what she might be covering up, and make it believable. Travis no doubt understood that I was mulling over possibilities, because he didn’t say anything about me taking so much time to answer each question. My Joe Oaks common sense was wide-awake in this real life game of survival.

  “I rescued her from the guy who supplied the phony drugs, my boss. He was practically holding her hostage, but she won’t admit it.”

  “Why?”

  I had to come back fast on that one, but I had the answer.

  “Because she’s scared of him.” I don’t know whether Travis believed that or not, because he didn’t say anything; so, I amended, “Or she might make up something.” Am I a genius or what?

  Travis Macintyre asked a few more questions that didn’t worry me much because my answers were close enough to the truth to be believable and not sink me deeper in the hot soup.

  “Okay. Let’s go on. Who’d you sell to?” he asked.

  Brownie points. “I got a complete list. I’ll provide you names, addresses, dates and amounts on all the drug stores, and Internet drug sites––on one condition.”

  “That you receive complete immunity from prosecution, right?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t know how to say it.”

  “I don’t have the authority. I interview, that’s all.”

  “Well, ask. And if you get me off the hook I’ll tell you a lot more.