by Mike Faricy
Luis was joined by his two neighbors as other people stepped out of their doors, looked at one another, and then across to the parking lot. Luis and his neighbors looked back and forth at one another for a moment. Then the fat one, called Tuna, looked over his shoulder and nodded toward Hub’s open door.
“Maybe we should see,” he said, moving his head again in the direction of Hub’s apartment.
A taller, much thinner man joined them. Luis had seen him before in the parking lot. They had smiled pleasantly but never really talked.
“We’ll go together,” said the thin man. He turned, yelling to the woman standing nervously in the front door of his apartment. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching warily, and the thin man yelled in Spanish, his dialect more Mexican than a Cuban pronunciation.
“Call the police, Espa, better call the police. Tell them a shooting. Tell them you’re sure.”
She vanished inside the door like a ghost, drifting, smoothly, swiftly back inside the darkened room.
“Let’s go,” said the thin man, stepping off. He had taken charge, which was just fine with Luis and Tuna. The three walked cautiously toward the apartment, Luis and Tuna hanging back a step or two. They stopped at the entry and peeked around the edge through the open door into the living room.
They saw Cyril first, half-sitting, half-kneeling against the edge of the couch. His head was cranked back sharply toward the ceiling, mouth agape, blank eyes open, arms limp at his side. Beyond him, in the hallway, Willy lay face down on the floor, his rear end up in the air, feet splayed out at an odd angle. The hallway walls were splattered with blood, bits of skull and brain matter still dripping slowly down the wall.
“Wait here. It’s best if only one goes in,” said the thin man at the door and got no argument from either Luis or Tuna. He entered the apartment cautiously, moving slowly toward Cyril, hesitating for a moment before feeling his neck for a pulse, withdrawing his hand almost immediately. He was going to check Willy in the hallway but stopped after taking two steps toward him, seeing what remained of the top of Willy’s skull and knowing there was no point proceeding. He made the sign of the cross, while outside in the corridor, Luis and Tuna did the same, each mumbling a silent prayer. This was the devil’s work.
There was excited shouting from the parking lot, people slowly coming down the corridor or up the stairs. The thin man told Luis and Tuna they couldn’t let anyone inside, to wait for the police. He told the older ones in the crowd, the parents and grandparents, to keep the children away. They shouldn’t see this sort of thing. After long moments and lots of speculation from the growing crowd, there came the distant sound of sirens, growing louder, closer.
The first Tampa Metro squad arrived and immediately called for backup as soon as they saw the crowd. It wasn’t that they feared the crowd, which would most likely not be a problem. But from street experience, they sensed this was going to be more than just a report of someone hearing shots fired.
A few minutes later, the patrolman called in his first report. Two dead, plus the license number, vehicle make, model and color along with a detailed description of a suspect. The suspect, last seen about seven minutes ago, was headed west on Canal Street. Along with the accurate description, the officer added the suspect should be considered armed and dangerous. Moments later, descriptions of Todd, and J.W.’s red Coupe de Ville, along with the car’s license number, had been broadcast across the city.
Chapter 52
J.W., having followed Val from the storage unit back to the Moonlight Dance Academy. He sat in his car across the street and down a few doors, impatiently waiting for Todd to show up with Val’s partner. He glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time, more a nervous reflex than actually checking on the time.
“Call, Todd. Damn you, boy,” J.W. muttered. “Call me!” He phoned Todd again, his irritation increasing by the moment. “Damn it,” he shouted, tossing the phone onto his passenger seat. “Damn it, Todd.” He phoned Todd again, with the same result, no answer.
“I can’t talk right now,” Todd screamed at his ringing phone as he raced through the intersection. He couldn’t answer because he was dealing with a little bigger issue than J.W.’s phone call. In the process of fleeing the scene, the phone had slid off the passenger seat and onto the floor somewhere. He could hear it ringing, and as he wove through traffic, he saw it slide from under the passenger seat. If he had just a second, he might be able to reach it, but just now, he was busy racing away from the two Tampa police cars chasing him. With sirens blaring, the two squad cars had to accelerate just to keep up as Todd raced down the wide thoroughfare, glancing in his rearview mirror, wondering how in the hell they had found him so damn fast.
He wasn’t sure where he was, other than he knew it was still Tampa. He had no idea how to get to J.W. Not a damn thing looked familiar as he zipped past a long strip mall and blasted through another intersection filled with blaring horns and screeching tires. Just now, finding where J.W. waited was at the bottom of Todd’s list of things to do.
He could make out what looked like an interstate overpass up ahead. If he could get to that, he might be able to put some distance between him and the squad cars. Maybe get enough time to pull over, drop to the level below, and lose the cops on foot. His phone was ringing again, sliding around somewhere on the floor. He instinctively started to reach for it, realized it was just a little too far away, and went back to looking in his rearview mirror. All the while screaming at the phone, “Stop calling me. Stop calling.”
He was leaning on his horn, blowing it nonstop. He could make better time, maybe have half a chance, if he could just get these idiots out of his way. If everyone would just move, he could lose these cops. “Move, damn it!” he screamed, shifting his rage from J.W. and the phone to the drivers ahead as he raced down the busy street, weaving in and out of traffic.
He raced toward the overpass and a sign for the ramp entrance. Ahead in the distance, he picked out the red lights of another squad car, zigzagging toward him through traffic. Suddenly, the interstate ramp became his only option.
He didn’t want to slow making a sharp right turn, so Todd jumped the boulevard curb, racing across a triangular patch of ground opposite a burger joint, figuring he could gain precious distance by accelerating across the grass, up toward the entrance ramp, before rocketing onto the interstate.
Sharif Payne had just paid for his extra-large, double thick, chocolate shake and was walking out the door, into the stifling afternoon heat. Sharif’s real name was Reginald, after his mother’s father. He’d adopted Sharif about a year ago when he started spelling his last name Pain, thinking it gave him more of an edgy street feel. Edgy, along the lines of something like ‘Don’t mess with the Sharif of Pain.’ Women liked to make it with a man who had a reputation, a man who spelled danger.
He stood waiting on the corner, sipping his shake, sweating in the heat while he waited for some fool in a Honda to pass by so he could cross the street, half-muttering to himself, “Come on, fool, pass me by, man.”
The Honda quickly pulled over to the curb, screeching to a stop just in front of Sharif. His first thought was he hoped the driver hadn’t heard him. He wasn’t too eager to meet up with some road-rage type and end up another statistic. At the same time, he heard the sirens, but he was unable to tell from which direction. He knew they were close and getting closer, but the sound seemed to be directionless.
Just as he turned around to make sure the fool in the Honda wasn’t going to shoot him, Todd slammed into the curb, bouncing the Coupe de Ville high into the air. Sharif caught a glimpse of Todd’s face straining to regain control as the Coupe de Ville bounced and plowed its way toward the concrete wall. Sharif didn’t have time to think. He dove over the trunk of the Honda, throwing his extra-large, double-thick shake into the air in the process.
The shake exploded across the driver’s side of Todd’s windshield, obscuring his view while he fought to regain contro
l, all the while jamming the accelerator against the floor. His vision was completely lost as the double thick chocolate shake spread across the windshield.
To Todd, it seemed like an hour, possibly two, as he drove on, sightless. Actually, it was only two or three seconds before he slammed into the entrance ramp wall, compacting the Coupe de Ville to a sixth of its original size. The front airbags exploded and then vaporized as the engine block shot into the back seat, pushing what was left of Todd’s body into the trunk.
As a matter of precaution, the police pulled into a perimeter and remained behind the open doors of their squad cars, guns drawn, trained on the wreckage.
From behind the Honda, a high, whiney voice said, “City owes me another shake, my man. I stopped this fool long enough for you all to do your duty.”
Sharif took a step closer to one of the officers, feeling this might be his big break, maybe make it on the evening news. “Hey, I’m asking you. What about a man’s shake, here?”
The look from one of the officers cut off Sharif’s line of inquiry.
“We’re just a little busy here, right now, sir.”
From somewhere within the wreckage, they heard what sounded like a phone ringing.
J.W. was wondering what had happened to those two idiots, Todd and Cyril. “Never send boys to do a man’s job, damn it,” he growled. Now he had to make a decision. Did he wait for those two ridiculous fools or just go in and grab Val on his own?
Chapter 53
Macey heard the initial report as one of the investigators walked past her desk, something about a murder suspect fleeing. She thought there was something familiar with the apartment complex he had mentioned. She quickly realized it was Hub’s complex and, a second later, his apartment. She walked into the dispatch area, hoping maybe she could pick up more by listening to incoming calls. She heard a lot of chatter coming across from Metro squads in pursuit and more talk of a double homicide but nothing beyond that. She raced through the office, looking for Carlos, thinking he might be able to help her.
Carlos was still washing his hands, looking at himself in the men’s room mirror, thinking last night’s dinner cost him at least $200. Plus a sitter and that didn’t even begin to cover any shopping Julia did. After driving the sitter home, he raced through the side streets, knowing full well he couldn’t possibly make it back before Julia fell sound asleep. Another missed opportunity. “Damn it, Macey,” he said, staring at himself in the mirror. One hell of a price to pay for a night of losing poker hands.
Macey learned from the radio chatter that there had been a double homicide, and the suspected shooter had been stopped, fleeing onto the expressway. Based on the initial vehicle description, she knew the shooter didn’t sound like Hub. But no other information was coming across about the two victims, other than they were male and Caucasian. That could be anyone, including Hub. Racing out of the parking lot, she told herself she would not leap to any conclusions. All her logic told her just to deal in facts as she accelerated down the street.
* * *
After leaving Deanna with the last of the donuts, Hub returned to work. It wasn’t as if he needed the money now, having just buried more cash than he’d ever seen in his life. What he did need was some time to think. And maybe it was a Midwestern thing, but he had always seemed to think best when working. So he spent the afternoon spreading a light yellow paint on the judge’s dining room walls.
Hub stood back and looked at the freshly painted wall, tilting his head slightly and letting out a long sigh. It seemed like a lot of work, but the end result was worth it. He looked at the wall from a variety of angles and thought, ‘It would be nice to have a home like this.’ He continued painting, finishing the dining room, thinking he wouldn’t tell a soul, especially Val, about the money.
He kept thinking that the best thing he could do was not change anything other than to stop working with Val. He was officially “retired” from the burglary business, effective now. He went back to pondering what sort of person would really have that kind of money stashed in her house. None of the answers he came up with were very encouraging.
Chapter 54
Val was wading through his latest list of potential targets, feet up on his credenza, lounging behind his desk, slowly sorting through a stack of application forms, double-checking to ensure he wasn’t missing out on a late arrival that might be more impressive than his current targets. Without looking up from his stack of forms, he suddenly had a sense someone was watching him. He hadn’t heard anyone come in, didn’t know where it came from.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my old partner,” J.W. said from the doorway.
Normally, Val would have shot out of his chair. He recognized the tone and accent. Without even looking around, he knew who it was. He slowly turned in his chair.
“Well, what do you know? If it isn’t J.W. Brooks, and I thought yesterday was bad. What brings your sorry ass all the way down to Tampa, J.W.? Run out of people to rip off up in Atlanta?”
J.W. remained leaning against the doorway, gun in hand. He stood there, staring at Val with a look suggesting he had intense lower intestinal pain.
“Now, Val, son. I’m pretty sure that’s not the way you were taught to greet your betters. ‘Specially after I come all the way down here just to see you, boy. I don’t suppose you heard someone stole all the items I purchased from you. Purchased fair and square, I might add.”
“You know, J.W.,” Val said. “You must have some big brass ones, thinking you can walk in here and roust me in my place of business. Unless you’re here to sign up for dance lessons, I don’t think you and I have anything to talk about. I’ve retired from the estate business after the last time I had to deal with you.”
“Look, son, your dancing ain’t gonna be worth a warm glass of spit, ‘specially if I put a bullet in your kneecap. So let’s you and me stop playing games. Okay?”
Despite his attempt at tough talk, Val was having a hard time focusing on anything other than the gun. You could say a lot of things about J.W. Right now, Val was pretty sure one of those things was he’d have no problem pulling that trigger.
“I’m not playing any games with you, J.W. I just don’t think you and I have anything to talk about, that’s all.”
“Son, the sooner you agree we’re gonna talk, the better it’s gonna be for the both of us. That little stunt you and your friend pulled up in Atlanta a few weeks back? Hell’s bells, son, that was just a little test. Just to see if you got what it takes. See if you can run with the big dogs instead of pissing around like some puppy. I came down here to tell you personally you passed in flying colors.”
“Gee, J.W., that’s great. Now, if there’s nothing else, you’ll excuse me. I’m a bit busy, and frankly, I’ve no intention of running with dogs.”
“You see, I like that, son. Like it a lot,” J.W. said. “No reason to back down.” He stepped into the office, pulled a chair back, and sat down across from Val.
“But now that we got all that out of our system, let’s talk, you and me. You seem to have yourself a pretty sweet deal going on here,” J.W. said, looking around while keeping the gun pointed directly at Val. “Though you are missing something.”
Val still hadn’t taken his eye off the gun, but he was listening, half-interested, the other half scared to death. “What might that be, J.W.? Not that there’s anything here to begin with unless you’re interested in learning how to dance East Coast Swing.”
“Son, you can acquire your items. In all honesty, that just might be the easy part for you. What you may have begun to figure out is that getting inventory is only half the battle. The hard part is getting a good price for your inventory and not getting caught.”
“So, what are you saying, J.W.? That somehow you could help me? I’m not sure I understand. I tried to work with you, and you threatened me. You stole my inventory. Paid me a dime to the dollar. Now I’ve got a legitimate business. What do you think you can do that would help me? Can yo
u teach dancing?”
J.W. sighed. This was why he wished that damn fool Todd was here. A few little slaps were needed to keep the discussion on track. He let out another long, audible sigh, suggesting his patience was being tried. “Look, son, right now, I’m betting your biggest problem, other than me and this here gun, is moving your inventory profitably. You got to take it out of state just to protect yourself. You need contacts, folks who will work with you.”
“Hell, son, don’t ya see that’s what I’m offering you? Move beyond driving your ass up Atlanta way a couple times a week. Start making some real money, instead of the nickel and dime way you’ve been doing things.”
“I got a pretty good taste of your version of help last time I was in Atlanta. If ten cents on the dollar is your idea of moving my inventory at a profit, I’m not very interested. Besides, like I already told you, I’m retired.”
“I said that was just a test, and you passed. Shit, you passed in flying colors. Look, tell you what I’m gonna do.” J.W. looked at the gun in his hand, sat up, stuffed it into his waistband, still close enough that he could reach it quickly, but at least it wasn’t pointed at Val. “There,” he said, “just to keep things more friendly. Now we’re just two old pals, talking ‘bout how we help one another out.”
Val wasn’t thrilled with the way this had started out. But if J.W. could deliver the contacts to move the items, let Val make the kind of money he had before, then they just might be back in business, maybe even long term. He could still have Hub acquire the stuff, continue paying him thirty percent. Maybe give J.W. twenty percent for setting up the contacts. That would still leave Val with 50% for doing nothing but sitting back and watching it all come in. Hub didn’t have to know anything. He wasn’t exactly your big deal guy, anyway.