by Karl Tutt
“Okay,” Chris said, “but we haven’t heard anything from Angel. Hell, she may be in Timbuktu for all we know. When she calls . . . if she calls, maybe we find her. Maybe we don’t. We need some help here. Maybe Bama, maybe even Frank. We accomplish nothing down here but putting our asses in a sling.”
“Hold on, Chris. One more thing,” Sunny said. “While you guys were doing field research, Bingo called. Angel is in town. He got the word from one of his girls. Angel’s the headliner at The Gilded Lady this weekend. Friday and Saturday nights. We got two days to plan. I don’t think we can steal her from M’s place on Ocean. At least not from what Bingo told me. The place sounds like a high class fortress. Sorry, but you guys may have to go back to 11th Street for more fun and recreation. Could be our only chance, especially if she’s hooked.”
Fritz shook his head. “T.K., no shit. You guys go back to Key West. It’s okay. This is not your fight. Sunny, Chris, there’s no need for you to be involved in this. Besides, I can handle it. She’s my baby. Good or bad, I’m responsible for whatever she is. I don’t give a damned what she’s done. I’m her father. I’m not leaving her in this hell hole. I’m not going without her.”
I looked at Sunny and Chris. They looked at me. I read it in their eyes.
“Sorry, Fritz,” I said. “It doesn’t work that way. We all said we were in. We are. She’s your daughter, but she belongs to all of us. I don’t know if we can make it okay, but we have to try. We’ll get her, take her home. Then it’s up to you. But for now, it’s the old Three Musketeers routine. One for all and all for one.”
He went from one face to the next. His eyes got misty, but Fritz doesn’t cry. He put his hand out, palm down. Sunny’s hand came down on his. Then Chris. Then me. It was a silly salute, a cliché, but it worked for us.
“Okay,” Chris said. “Now that this shit is settled, we need a plan. Listen up. Then you can shoot holes in it. We leave in the morning early. The charming Mr. Mustapha thinks his threats worked. You take KAMALA over to the anchorage near the Venetian Causeway. Drop the hook. My Avon is in the water and that 15 horse Yamaha moves her like a bat. There’s a place near there where we can land the dinghy. We could get a cab, but it makes better sense to rent a car. Something common, unobtrusive. We go to The Gilded Lady, snatch her after her set. Sunny picks us up. We make for the boat. You guys leave before the sun rises. The perfect escape.”
“Yeah, it sounds damned near as stupid as it did the first time I heard it.” said Sunny. “And what if they come after us. A 31 foot sailboat making 5-6 knots max. We’ll be one hell of a target. Big, white and slow. Great combination. Besides, I’ll just bet those boys have guns.”
“Yeah,” Fritz said. “So do we.”
I shuddered and Chris stared at Sunny. “All right Mata Hari, you got a better idea?”
Sunny shook her head and frowned. “I wish the hell I did. So you guys are the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday. I guess I’m the designated driver,” she said tersely.
“Why would they follow?” Fritz chimed in. “My daughter. So they lose a dancer? I’ll bet M has them waiting in line to sample his sick brand of fame and fortune. I got a buddy up here. Lieutenant in the Coast Guard. I’ll tell him we got problems, might be expecting trouble. We can get an armed escort out of here. Maybe all the way down Hawk’s Channel.”
When the silence settled, Chris got in the Avon started the outboard. He was out of sight in sixty seconds. It was only a ten minute ride to the anchorage at the Causeway.
The rest of us were up at six. I ran down the dock to the newspaper stand and grabbed a Miami Herald. I threw it below and turned the ignition key. The Universal rumbled and purred beneath the deck. We slipped the lines and backed out of the space. I saw someone on the dock watching, a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. I couldn’t make him out clearly, but I’d take even money it was Angelo. I tossed a wave in his direction, but he didn’t wave back. I steered KAMALA west on Government Cut back to the Intracoastal Waterway. The mammoth cruise ships rocked gently at the docks, preparing to board three or four thousand impatient passengers. The party crowd with their bikinis and muscle shirts on Carnival, ready to blast down free food, gulp multiple shots and dance until their legs ached. The high rollers in their white duck slacks and conservative sun dresses boarding a Celebrity floating resort. Ready to retreat to a week of expensive cocktails, exquisite food and service to match. Ballroom dancing. Perhaps an art auction. Different strokes for different folks, or as a car buddy of mine used to say, “There’s a seat for every ass.”
We were back to the ICW and out of sight of the marina. I turned north and doubled back east at the Venetian Causeway. We avoided the use of the VHF in case someone was listening, but in twenty minutes we were calling to Chris aboard FOXES’ LAIR. He stuck his head out of the companionway. “Too damned early,” he screamed and disappeared below.
I came up into the east wind and Fritz eased the Bruce and the chain over the bow roller. It bit immediately. I backed down to make sure she was set. Fritz let out more scope and cleated the anchor line. We were dug in about thirty yards from Chris among twenty sailboats and a couple of shiny power yachts. It seemed like a pretty good hideout if no one looked too hard.
I went below and started the coffee. I was looking forward to an hour or so with a good newspaper. Fritz settled in the cockpit and lit a Marlboro. Sunny was making some kind of mysterious notes, maybe planning our funerals.
I filled my mug and glanced at the front page of the Herald. It seemed like the whole damned country of Syria was on fire. Six more killed in Afghanistan, four American troops, a woman delivering books to needy school children and one Afghan police officer. “Get the hell out of there,” I thought for the hundredth time. The Democrats and Republicans were screaming over the budget and a respected state senator, a veteran of twenty years of marriage, had been fooling with his young secretary. Somehow it didn’t seem much like news.
Pages two and three weren’t much better, but in the local section there was a small item near the bottom. A doctor from Coral Gables had been found last night in his garage. He had run a hose from the car’s exhaust to the interior. Asphyxiation. His wife found him. She had been playing in a bridge tournament at the country club. The police believed drugs were involved. They found a bottle of prescription pain killers on the seat beside him, but did not suspect foul play. There was no note, but temporary findings indicated suicide. No name pending notification of other relatives, but he was a respected specialist at Mount Seneca Private Hospital.
I folded the paper and put it down. The words echoed in my mind, “You don’t know when they’re watching.” I couldn’t be sure, but the coincidences were stacked up like boxes in a warehouse. Timing, his manner of speech, the sticker in the window. Another dead man. It was one more warning exploding in my consciousness. We had to be careful. M wouldn’t leave us alone. There was violence and mayhem lurking in this city, stalking us like a pack of hungry jackals, waiting for a fatal mistake or a weakness so they could savage us and leave our bleeding carcasses to the vultures. I didn’t worry much about Fritz or myself. Not even Chris. But Sunny didn’t need to be any part of this hellish shit. Still I knew I had a better chance of stopping a tsunami than getting her to back off.
The rest of the day was quiet, each of us sequestered in our own private hell. Scared, uncertain, but determined to follow through with a plan that Sunny characterized as “pure stupidity”. Unfortunately it was all we had. I didn’t tell anyone about the late Doctor X.
Fritz called his Coast Guard buddy. They traded updates. Fritz was deliberately vague about our ‘trouble’, but Lieutenant Cooper was on command watch the next night and promised that his old buddy wouldn’t be left wanting if there was a problem.
The next day was Friday. Enterprise brought us a new Chevrolet Impala, dark green. We picked up a few groceries and more beer. If we were lucky, we’d snatch Angel, melt into the darkness and be bac
k in Hawk’s Channel on our way to the relative safety of Key West.
Chapter 19
I decided to call Frank. He answered on the first ring.
“Damn it,” he said. “You sure know how to keep a guy in the dark. Where are you and what are you up to?”
He asked if I’d called Bama. I told him no. I decided to tell him about the plan.
“Come on T.K. You guys are as likely to end up in jail as you are to snatch Angel. Why don’t you let me call Bama? Maybe you can get a court order, do something legal for a change. It might take a few days, but maybe he can grease the wheels.”
“I think she’d be gone before the ink was dry on the request. Mr. Mustapha seems to have some friends with juice.”
I told him about the mysterious doctor.
“Bad shit. Even more reason to lay low, let the wheels of justice grind. Sunny’s right. You guys are an easy target. You’ll never get out of Biscayne Bay.”
“I hope you’re wrong, Frank. In Miami, the wheels may be grinding to a halt. If we miss a shot at Angel, she could be on a plane to L.A. before breakfast. Or worse yet, gator bait at some exclusive country club golf course. I just don’t see any options and Fritz is getting very impatient. I don’t want to be in his way if he decides to use that Sig.”
“So that’s it,” he said. “And what time does this brilliant debacle go down?”
“Her first set at The Gilded Lady should be around eight-thirty. We’ll be there.”
“T.K., please try to talk some sense into the damned A Team. Mr. T is on vacation. At least get them to wait a day or two. I got friends up there. I can make something work.” There was a plaintive note I’d never heard in Frank’s voice.
“I’ll try,” I said, but I knew there was no use in it. We were primed. I couldn’t stall Fritz. Stupid or not, it was going to happen.
I didn’t tell the shock troops about the call. I was afraid it would make Fritz crazier than he already was. He spent half the day nuzzling the nine millimeter. Cleaning, staring down the barrel. It was a sick love dance. He was through waiting.
Chapter 20
I heard the clatter of the outboard about seven-thirty. Chris bid us on board and ferried us over to the dinghy dock. He wore a sandy full length canvas duster, like something from an old John Wayne western. It was still warm from the day, but I knew what he had in mind. The green Impala was waiting patiently in a spot on the street. Sunny cranked it up and we headed for The Gilded Lady. I suggested a detour down Ocean Boulevard to do a recon of Mr. Mustapha’s compound. Sunny drove slowly, but there was no other option with the parade of expensive convertibles and limos cruising the strip.
M’s place was truly magnificent. An old Art Deco from the fifties. Three stories. Boxy, but elegant. Coquina in shades of gold and crimson. The landscaping was a manicured jungle. The courtyard was huge. Brick pavers with a drive that circled a fountain spraying geysers dancing in the light. We could barely see the entrance from the street, but the mahogany doors gleamed and two gold knockers festooned each one. There were at least two guards that I could see. One at the iron gate and one stationed at the entrance to the house. There was a black sedan parked in front of the steps. At a distance it looked like a Bentley. A chauffer in livery leaned against the side, quietly polishing the chrome door handles. I wasn’t counting him, but I was sure the other two were well armed. Angel wasn’t coming out of there until Mustapha was ready. No way we’d make it past the sidewalk. At least I’d convinced Fritz to leave the Sig on KAMALA.
Sunny turned right on 11th and parked in a space on the street not far from the old theater. It was perfect. She could see the front doors of The Gilded Lady. When we came out with Angel, the car would be at the curb in a minute or less.
The music was flooding onto the street. It was a Friday night crowd, loud, energetic, and eager for a taste of the writhing flesh. Fritz paid the cover for all of us. The fee had gone up. “Top notch talent. You won’t be sorry,” the bouncer told us and grinned. We took the table near the back where we could hide in the shadows until Mission Impossible was launched. I looked around for Tom Cruise, but he must have had a previous engagement.
Our timing was on the money. Alicia had just left the stage. Her body glistened as she made the rounds to collect her tribute. She shook her mob of red hair at all of the right times and laughed at the bad jokes and crude comments. She doled out the expected kisses and endured the adventurous pats on the ass from her enthralled audience. She had earned her money.
The disembodied voice on the P.A. boomed. “And now for her first set, sent from heaven itself. The most beautiful, most voluptuous, most willing lady on the planet. Yes, gentlemen. It’s Angel, a veritable goddess without wings.”
A drum pounded and the bass guitar picked up the beat. It crawled into my ears and vibrated with a hellish rhythm. There was a wailing that sounded like the howl of a thousand banshees. I didn’t recognize the music, but the intent was clear. It was pure sex. I saw a glass of blue liquid sitting on the bar at the back of the stage. A willowy figure took a deep slug, caressed her long blond curls, and was consumed by the beat. She was long, almost lanky, pulsing and breathing sensuality with every move. The six inch heels made her a naked Amazon, ready to suck the life out of any male who dared worship her.
It was a slow, serpentine prance into the spotlight. The lasers picked up every mound and curve in a staccato of color. Her lips were painted stoplight red. The thick eye shadow was Bahamas blue and the charcoal liner crept from the corners of her eyes and turned upward in a graceful arc. She seemed to stumble a bit, and her pupils were somewhat dilated. The black ribbon encircled her neck. She raised her left hand and placed a red claw around the brass pole. Then she put a fingertip to her lips and traced a line down her belly to the netherworld between her legs. The snake on her forearm seemed ready to hiss and strike from its curl on the vicious dagger. The word “death” was barely visible, but it was all too real.
My face felt hot and single embarrassment crept up my spine. Was the siren on stage the innocent child I held when she was afraid, comforted when she wept and followed through every misstep she’d ever made? I looked at Fritz. He was a statue in some perverted funhouse. His face held a ghostly pallor, and his lips hung slightly apart as though words had suddenly become lost things.
She sauntered onto the apron of the stage and touched her breasts. She pulled one to her mouth and licked the nipple, smiling alluringly at the wild boys sitting in the front row. Then she raised one finger and shook it at them. “No,” she seemed to say, “maybe later.” She pointed at the sweet vee between her legs and began to grind.
I turned to Fritz, but he was out of his chair and headed for the stage. The music continued to pump, but she suddenly stopped and stood upright. I thought I saw her red lips form the word “Daddy”.
Fritz reached the stage and offered his hand. She hesitated for a moment, then took it in hers. He helped her down and pulled her toward our table. Chris was already up and out of the duster. The bouncer bolted at us, but Chris threw a chair in his path. He tripped and sprawled to the floor. Chris wrapped the duster around Angel’s naked body. She shed the plastic heels and together we rushed for the door.
The doorman had his back turned, warning an obnoxious drunk to keep his hands off his favorite beauty. We were out before he noticed. The door closed behind us. I looked for Sunny, but I froze when I saw what stood before us. Three men blocking our path to the street. No surprise on the left. It was Angelo, his shoulders bowed, feet slightly apart, looking like a prizefighter eager for a first-round knockout. In the middle was M. He was as broad as I thought. His simian features grinned. There was a trace of spittle on the lower lip of his cruel mouth. It was the third man who railed me. All six-foot-seven of Bama Baker. Frank’s linebacker, his savior and our roadblock to freedom. His coat was pulled back and the butt of his Glock protruded from the holster at his belt. We were no match for them. Angel staggered and whimper
ed. Chris and Fritz held her up as her father whispered vainly not to be afraid. My mind spun as I scanned the street for Sunny and a quick escape route.
“Okay, y’all, we gonna get in the white limo in that spot on the right. We gonna do it quietly and without any hassle. Otherwise, I may have to call on my ol’ friend.” It was Rhett Butler all over again, but now the gentile accent threatened with quiet menace. Bama put his hand on the Glock and offered the sweet smile you might expect from a well raised southern boy. M glared while Angelo twitched. His face said he hoped we wouldn’t comply.
“I don’t understand, Bama,” I said.
“You just wouldn’t, Doc. Very simple really. It’s all about money and pussy and Mr. M gets me plenty of both. I’m a happy boy. I want to stay that way. This ain’t no damned negotiation. Get in the car.”
He lifted the automatic out of his holster, slid the chamber back, and held it menacingly at his side.
I faked a turn toward the limo and dove at his knees. He screamed and buckled, crumbling on top of me. I tried to get my arm around his gun hand. Chris had released Angel and gone to his pocket. A small canister that looked like breath spray was in Angelo’s face. Mace. Angelo howled and put his fists to his eyes. He coughed and writhed on the pavement. With his two thugs disabled Mustapha decided it was better to live to fight another day. He bolted into the club and the bouncer slammed the door behind him.
It was over for Angelo. Sunny finally screeched up and Fritz dragged Angel to the open door of the Impala. Bama and I still struggled, but it was a battle I would lose. He twisted me around and pounced on my belly. Then he rammed one large fist into my face. The blood came instantly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chris moving toward the hulk on top of me. Suddenly he froze. The Glock was shoved halfway up my nose.