Diabla Makes an Entrance

by Karl Tutt

  No calls the rest of the day. I was nervous and fidgety and I missed my bosom buddy, Mr. Glock. I went to the closet and pulled a shoe box from the floor. I removed the black stilettos and the false bottom. There was another old friend, my Smith and Wesson .38 revolver resting comfortably in the ankle holster. It was oiled and loaded. I pulled back the hammer and tested the weight with my outstretched arm. The cylinder spun like a Swiss watch. I didn’t think I’d need it, but it always felt warm strapped to my leg.

  I was at Bugsy’s at 3:45. I took the table in the back, ordered a double of Jameson with a water chaser, and waited. I checked my watch at 4:30. It looked like my best girlfriend had stood me up. I was debating how much longer to wait when another old buddy sauntered in. I caressed the butt of the S and W at my ankle.

  “You vud allow me de pleasure of sitting vid you for a moment. Mrs. Longstreet has been unavoidably detained.”

  Triple D, always the gentleman. He sat before I could respond. The huge head and shoulders blocked out the sky and his golden hair was perfect, just like Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London”. He placed his massive hands on the table. With the scars, they looked like two gnarled oak roots breaking ground. I knew they’d tried to break me.

  “Not to vorry. I stay but a moment. I understand you are no longer active in police investigation. It is gud for you. Enjoy and remember . . . you haf been warned. If we meet again, it vill not be pleasant for you.”

  I thought about shooting the sonovabitch right there, but I didn’t want to mess up Bugsy’s fine upholstery and I figured the blood would stain the floor.

  He nodded politely and rumbled out the door. I finished the Irish, waved to Bugsy and went home. I scanned the news channels, but nothing remarkable came up. Maybe local at six. I poured a glass of Cab and rooted through the refrigerator for anything that might resemble real food.

  What the hell. Cheerios and a half-rotten banana would have to do. Sure enough, Sweet Nancy appeared right on schedule. The gorgeous blond newscaster tried hard to look sad and astonished at the same time.

  “Prominent Ft. Lauderdale socialite, Ms. Nancy Longstreet was killed at 3:00 this afternoon in a hit and run at the corner of Las Olas Boulevard and US 1A. Our cameraman was on the scene within moments.”

  They showed footage of her black Mercedes. It was crushed like a Tonka toy. The rear was smashed almost flat up to the back seat and the driver’s side door had crumpled into the front seat.

  “According to an eye witness, a white van had rammed her car at high speed from behind, pushing it into the intersection. Then a large blue pickup hit her broadside at full speed, crushing the passenger door. Ms. Longstreet, who reportedly never wore a seatbelt, was killed instantly. Both drivers exited and disappeared in the beach crowd. Police are withholding further information as the crash is currently being investigated as a homicide. Tune in at eleven for further details. Now in other news . . .”

  That was all the news I needed. “Unavoidably detained . . .” those words hung in my ears. Yeah . . . it was unavoidable. She was dead and Triple D knew it almost before it happened. I racked my brain trying to think who I could trust at the precinct to funnel me some information. The murder, I was sure that’s what it was, happened not far from Bugsy’s Last Resort. She might even have been on her way to our meeting. Did she have the files with her? Who had them now? Who had she talked to in the last twenty-four hours? I made a mental list of suspects: Stuart, Stuart, and Stuart. Certainly my wrestling buddy was involved, but he was just under orders. Mustapha. I knew the bastard was involved. I just wasn’t sure how. One thing I did know. He was a stone killer whether he was the one actually pulling the trigger or not.

  Chapter 20

  I was bored shitless. I tried to find things to fiddle away the morning. I checked the TV. Nothing new on the demise of the diva. I swished some Comet through the sinks and the toilets. At least they smelled a little better. I transferred a pile of dirty clothes from the floor to the laundry basket. Satiated my neatness gene. Checked the fridge for any traces of food that was remotely edible. No luck.

  Hell, I had to eat. That wasn’t going to happen unless I slid out of my stained T-shirt and donned something presentable so the outside world wouldn’t mistake me for that dotty old lady who rattled the grocery cart past my building every day.

  The sad fact was that without my badge and my gun, I felt like Wonder Woman without the wonder. I was never much for domestic activities. I wasn’t spaced out on drugs like the old days. I wasn’t a dancer anymore, even though I still had the tits and ass for it. I was a cop and, I hoped, a good one. But my copness had been cut-off with my suspension. I was not only powerless, but I felt damned near useless. I am not big on crying, but I began to feel a little weepy. The “Poor Little Me” syndrome was whining in my breast. I filled my lungs with air. Then the muscles in my face contorted. Was I still the tough broad or a candidate for the Little Sisters of the Poor? I hopped up off the sofa and said out loud, “Shut up, you stupid bitch. Get off your ass and do something.”

  I threw on a pair of runner’s pants and a matching top. Then I dragged a brush through my hair, even slapped on a little lipstick. Hell, I was hungry. A Daily Double of eggs and pancakes at Bruno’s Breakfast Spot would bring me back from the dead. At least in theory.

  I pulled the door open and a manila envelope fell at my feet. There was no address or label. My curiosity was killing me, but so was my hunger. I locked the door and made for Bruno’s. The coffee was hot, thick and rich and so was the packet. Full copies of the police report on Ms. Longstreet’s accident and another letter sized envelope with three sheets of folded paper and some candids. On the top, the name Stuart Longstreet printed with a black Sharpie. Names, dates, notes in the margin, even photos. All the work of a private detective who was supposedly murdered by yours truly.

  I smiled at the server and probably drooled a bit. “Daily Double,” I said politely and smiled.

  I looked at the files. It was a tough decision, but I decided to start with the police report. On the top of the first sheet was a note scrawled in pencil. “Still got your back, Babe.” No signature and I couldn’t recognize the handwriting. Ricky . . . maybe Harve? I didn’t know, but it felt good to realize at least someone at the department was still on my side.

  There wasn’t much in the official report that I didn’t already know. It was clear that the boys at the precinct were convinced it was a homicide. Apparently the steering wheel was embedded in Nancy’s chest. They had to cut it out to remove her from the vehicle. The lady didn’t like seatbelts, but I doubted that would have saved her. Both the pick-up and the van that nailed her had been reported stolen earlier that morning. Forensics was still evaluating the evidence taken from the crime scene. No suspects. Still, I knew who to put my money on.

  There were five eyewitnesses, but it had happened so fast and the scene was so horrific that they were damned near in shock. The various descriptions of the driver could have matched a parade of pedestrians on any city street in Florida.

  I sipped my coffee and stared out the window. The warmth of the full-bodied scent lay on my cheeks and drifted gently into my nostrils. The plate arrived. Eggs, pancakes, four fat bacon slices and a side of home fries. I guess I gobbled. Bruno’s Daily Double had done the trick. My belly was full and my senses were sharp.

  The report was thorough, but I still had some things pricking my skin like a bad rash and it all started and ended with Commander Stuart Longstreet. He was the one thing missing from the report. I decided to walk back to my apartment before I opened Callano’s file. I wanted to let the info seep into my brain before I dared to make my next move. I reminded myself that someone had tried to kill me. If I hadn’t been wearing that damned scarf, he would have pulled it off quite nicely. No more Diabla, no more tough broad. Maybe some wouldn’t think that was such a great loss.

  I reached home and spread the file out on the kitchen table. One spot glared at me.
It reminded me of the neat little hole in Louie’s head. Louie was a creep, but he wasn’t stupid.

  Someone he knew or trusted had gotten close enough to put the barrel within six inches of his head. Maybe the file would help me find out who.

  The pages contained several reports of rendezvous between Stuart and Angie. Some at her penthouse, a few at motels just out of the local area and more than one at quiet little restaurants mostly north of Ft. Lauderdale. He was seeing her on a regular schedule, usually Monday and Thursday nights, with the occasional weekend thrown in. Probably when Ms. Longstreet was out of town on some mission of mercy. It all jived with the info I’d gotten from Stuart and from her, before her violent demise.

  The photos were underneath the pile of papers. One candlelit supper in a nameless restaurant, Stuart and Angie staring into each other’s eyes like something off a 50’s movie poster. One somewhat dark encounter, probably in a motel room, their naked bodies entwined like two crazed animals. A few more that would have to qualify as circumstantial evidence.

  The one on the bottom of the stack was the shocker. The entrance to Angie’s building in the background. Stuart’s Mercedes in a lined parking space. Two men exiting the car. One was obviously Stuart. The other was a bit blurred, harder to make out. Still, I knew that shape, and the luxurious blood hair. I didn’t need to see the face. I had already seen it much too close, heard the voice, understood that I “had been warned.” My old pal, Triple D. I pinched my lip between my thumb and forefinger and shuddered. Noxious poison spit into my spine.

  It was still early, but I poured a shot of Jameson. Commander Stuart Longstreet and the Deadly Dutch Destroyer. What the hell were they doing together at Angie’s place? I knew they’d both been there before, but together? My mind was like a whirlpool. There was all sorts of debris being swept up into a black maw. Some of it was garbage, but some of it was straining to connect.

  The men, the gun, the dope, the spurned wife. It made a crazy kind of sense, but too many pieces of the puzzle were still missing. I made a quick decision.

  “I’d like to speak to Commandant Longstreet.”

  “He is out of the office due to family matters. May I take a message?”

  I gave her my home and cell numbers, not expecting any response from the grieving husband, but within a half hour the cell rang.

  “Dee, its Stuart. This has to end. I hated her, but I didn’t want her dead. They’ve gone too far. Palm Point. Tonight. Up the New river. Somewhere around two A.M. Bring someone you can trust and make sure you’re packing. I’ll be there on SUGAR GIRL. Be careful. Your phone is probably tapped. They may know. Hell, they know everything else.”

  The phone went dead.

  They, they, they. Who the hell were ‘they’? Why SUGAR GIRL? Who had the juice to tap my phones? I’m supposed to be a pro. Why couldn’t I figure this out? I reached for my 38. It was cold and hard in my hand. Would it protect me? Who could I trust?

  Chapter 21

  I knew Palm Point. It was way up the river past what used to be Summerfield Boatyard, now high rise condos, of course, like everything else in Ft. Lauderdale. There was a dirt road that led to part of an old plantation that grew several varieties of palm trees. No way I could take a car in there. One way in, one way out. I’d be spotted before I made the turn off of the main highway.

  I needed a boat. I didn’t have one and I doubted that the authorities would be sympathetic to a midnight rendezvous that might involve gunfire from a suspended detective. I racked my brain. Then I remembered Uncle Teddy.

  He was a friend of Dad’s, another old North Carolina boy with sea salt in his veins. After several bouts with a nasty form of leukemia, he had retired on GREAT GESTURE, his old Pearson 365. He lived aboard at Cooley’s Landing, spending what were probably his last days in the Florida sun. I hadn’t seen him in a while, but it was time.

  I didn’t even know if he had a phone, so I hopped into my old Focus and drove along the river through town. I parked in front of his slip. He was topsides sanding the teak toe rail. I glanced at his torso. He was still solid, but the scars on his chest looked like the roadmap to hell. When he heard the car door slam, he looked in my direction. A smile as big as a sunrise broke across his face.

  “Angel,” he cried, “you’re a sweet sight for this old bastard’s eyes. Come aboard.”

  I stepped onto the deck and hugged his sweaty hulk. Sure enough, there was a gray Achilles inflatable with a shiny 8 horse Tohatsu tugging at the painter cleated to his boat.

  “Come on below. The AC is cranking out some cool. I might even be able to find an icy beverage for you.” He winked and laughed.

  It was even chilly below, but the cabin was immaculate. Teak oiled, table white, sink shiny, not a speck of dust anywhere to be seen. The hull strained lightly at her lines. If I knew Uncle Teddy, the engine room looked the same. Another case of beer and GREAT GESTURE could leave for the Bahamas tonight. He popped open a couple of Kaliks and put one in my willing palm.

  He asked about Dad, T.K., Chris and all of the other Key West dock rats. I didn’t have much, but what I did made his eyes sparkle and his mouth turn up at the corners.

  “So what’s with you, Angel?”

  “Not much, Uncle Teddy, but I do need a favor.”

  “You name it, you got it,” he thundered and grinned.

  “Is your dinghy serviceable? I mean running good and all that stuff.”

  “Honey, you know the answer to that question. If it’s on GREAT GESTURE, it works, or I fix it. She’s as sound as the day I bought her and she will be until they dump my sorry ass overboard.”

  “Well I need a boat for a day or so and I think the Achilles would be perfect. Can I pick her up around dark?”

  “I’m not gonna ask why you need a dinghy around dark. I figure you’d tell me if I need to know. But I’ll double check the Tohatsu and make sure there is plenty of fuel in the tank. I got barbecue and cocktails down the dock with a couple of old bilge rats this evening. You just come on by and take her when it suits you. Bring her back when you finish. You never know. I may have one last cruise in me.” He smiled and patted my shoulder with his sweaty hand.

  “Thanks, Uncle Teddy, I’ll have her back by tomorrow noon.”

  “You take care of yourself, Miss.”

  I nodded. He gave me one more hug and I headed back to the apartment.

  I took a slight detour and rode down Poinciana. Stuart’s Mercedes was in the driveway, but SUGAR GIRL was out of the slip. Fishing trip . . .? Maybe.

  Okay, one immediate problem solved, one more to go. Trust . . . a word we all use, but seldom understand. Like a lot of other things, it’s more complicated and convoluted than most of us can imagine. It’s the eternal skeptic buried deep within us. Maybe not our best part, but one that protects us . . . and sometimes keeps us alive. Dad once told me there was only one thing you could completely trust. People will act in their own self-interest. He was right, but there were times when you had to take your best shot. Mine was Ricky. He’d saved my ass more than once. I had to bet he would again.

  I dialed his cell.

  “Can you meet me at Cooley’s Landing at eight this evening?”

  “Anything for you, Babe.”

  “Wear boat shoes and bring a friend.”

  I hung up. I knew Ricky’s friend would be a Glock.

  Chapter 22

  About six, I ate a tuna fish sandwich and some stale Saltines. I followed it up with a glass of cheap Cabernet. Nothing like a gourmet meal for the ultimate detective in disgrace.

  I slipped into my black jeans and topped them off with a black long sleeved t-shirt. I stuffed my hair up under a black watch cap. Dark brown topsiders completed the costume. I stared into the full-length mirror. Looking back was one of those ninjas from an old Bruce Lee movie. I strapped on my shoulder holster and slid my Smith and Wesson .38 into the supple leather. I was ready. At least that’s what I told myself.

  I st
arted out the door and then remembered one more item that could come in handy. I went back to the bedroom and pulled open the bottom dresser drawer. I gripped the six-inch switchblade and stared for a moment at the black skull engraved into the pale bone handle. I’d picked it up at a crime scene. Some perp who wanted to carve up a drug dealer who’d crossed him. Not exactly protocol for a by-the-book cop, but it looked handy at close quarters. I tried the release. The blade snapped to attention and flashed a demonic grin. Sharp and deadly. I stuffed it into my bra, just below my left breast. The cold steel gave me a momentary twinge. Nevertheless, it was an extra edge I might need.

  There wasn’t much of a moon when I pulled into the parking lot. I was glad. I didn’t want to be seen or heard unless absolutely necessary. Ricky was right on time. The Cadillac XLR was gleaming as usual. Ricky had followed my lead, all in black with the Glock clipped to his belt.

  Uncle Teddy’s Achilles was bobbing lazily at the dock. There was no wind and the humidity had to be near 100%. I figured there could be light fog before the morning. That wouldn’t be all bad.

  I was afraid the play would get rough before the end of the night, but we boarded and fired up the Tohatsu. She purred quietly, eager to get out into the river. Ricky guided the inflatable up past the landing while I sat on the bow. We went under a couple of draw bridges then pulled over in a small basin and tied to a private dock. It was near ten and the mist had begun to set in. We waited. There was still a lot of light from the houses and street lamps, but it had a eerie glow to it in the moist air. We had good cover from the nearby mangroves and a clear view of the river channel.

  It was just after midnight when I heard the rumbling of the huge twin diesels. SUGAR GIRL’s milk white hull glided past like a determined ghost shimmering in the glow of the ambient light. We waited until she was almost out of sight. We hugged the banks, following her up past the last of the glittering condos. I knew Palm Point was just ahead.

  When I turned to motion to Ricky, I saw the dull glint of the Glock shoved right up in my face.

  Chapter 23

  “Hand over the S&W, butt first.”

  It wasn’t a request. I slipped the .38 out of the holster and followed his instructions. I heard the splash as he threw the revolver into the murky water.