“So, instead of worrying about why we’re wasting time with a small payoff, why not let me do the thinking, okay?”
Finally Deacon said, “Alright. You can’t argue with success. So what are we going to do?”
“I have no idea at this point. I’ll probably call Mrs. Sutton back. Talk to her.”
“Better you than me, boss. I think she could freeze water by staring at it.’
“Careful how you talk about the mother of my half-brother.”
Something that was almost a smile played on Bludwurth’s handsome face.
“Half-brother? Her and your old man? He couldn’t have been that desperate.”
“She showed me a photo of the two of them taken about 35 years ago. She wasn’t bad. She said she was telling me to let me know it was my half-brother I was helping. I guess she thought that would make us work extra hard.”
“That’s kind of a touching story. You going to tell him.”
“No. She didn’t want him to know. And I wouldn’t want to have to kill him after going to the trouble of getting him off on that murder charge. You’ve heard stories about how the old man was. He must have had enough semen for a dozen damned bulls. He impregnated heifers up and down the state. Spread his seed far and wide. And Ms. Sutton’s husband must have been a little – limp wristed. Apparently she fell for the old man’s rugged charms. But, that’s going to remain our little secret. I’ve had to eliminate too many possible heirs to the Bludwurth money already.”
Deacon stared toward the door of Bludwurth’s office, thinking for a moment of Meri’s smooth, rounded body. She’d be waiting for him in her apartment. And she was made of silly putty. There was nothing she couldn’t do in bed. And it had been a bad day.
“You know, Blud, probably the smartest thing to do would be to let me go hunting. I can stay low, watch Maitland until I see an opening, and take him out. He’s the guy ramrodding Sutton’s case. Take him out and it will be a while before they can get another guy up to speed and the case ready to go. The longer it takes, the more chances we’ll have to take the old man out.”
Bludwurth just stared at him wordlessly until Deacon felt like he was reading his mind.
“Interesting idea, except you just want to kill him for embarrassing you.”
“No, but that wouldn’t hurt.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Why? I can do it so there’s no tracks, nothing to implicate us. We’ve done it before.”
“Not this time. I want you to stay away from him, stay out of Jacksonville.”
“Why the hell not? You’re not letting that ‘Angel of Death’ crap scare you, are you?”
“No.”
He leaned back, did something under the desk and the lights dimmed to near darkness. He had become a shadow against the surrounding darkness.
“Head on over to Meri and enjoy yourself tonight. I need to think about some things.”
Deacon turned to leave when Bludwurth said, “I don’t believe in that Angel of Death crap. But I do believe in gut feelings. There’s just something – something about the guy. I have a bad feeling about him.”
Deacon was walking out the door as he heard Bludwurth say, “And I trust my gut.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THERE ARE NO DULL NIGHTS IN JACKSONVILLE
November 12, 2005
Friday, 9 P.M.
I pulled the Escalade into the Landing’s parking drive and slowed looking for any place to park. I caught sight of a police cruiser parked in the shadows near the river entrance. The Jacksonville Landing was a horse-shoe shaped two-story restaurant/bar/ shop mall with its front to the St. Johns and the Riverwalk and its back facing ???Street. It usually did pretty good business was it was gangbusters on Friday and Saturday nights.
The downtown had always been plagued by crime – muggers, car thieves, robbers, rapists – no matter how much the City Fathers tried to convince tourists and city residents that the downtown was safe after dark. In recent years more and more HIYPpies (High Income Young Professionals) had started moving into the downtown for the arty lofts where you could pretend you were living in a big city like New York or Atlanta. Hell, I was being too harsh, way too middle-aged. I had never lived that young, single professional life. I had been married, with kids, forever. The suburbs, which turned out to be Mandarin south of Jacksonville and on the border of Clay County, had been my adult life. If I had been single and young, I probably would have loved the loft life – cool, cutting edge, being able to walk to the Landing, hanging with other men and women my age who had never even thought of children or anything beyond month-long hookups.
But even the young professionals hadn’t been able to single-handedly save the Landing. The City had to keep pushing because there was always that perception that the downtown was simply a scary place after dark. And a rash of car burglaries, two couples robbed at gunpoint in the last month and one 15-year-old high student dragged into the bushes and raped by three men not two blocks from the Landing, had the public’s antenna up again.
I drove toward him and stopped a dozen feet away. I stepped out and approached him. He looked at me warily and stayed in the cruiser.
“Can I help you sir?”
“Yeah, hi. I’m Bill Maitland with the State Attorney’s Office. The place looks pretty packed. Would you have any idea if there’s any place to park that wouldn’t require a mile-long walk?”
I didn’t recognize him and he didn’t recognize me.
“I wish I could help you, sir, but-“
He looked behind me and looked back to see Myra swiveling toward us. I was used to her and she still took my breath away. He looked like a deer caught in the lights of an oncoming 18-wheeler.
“Officer, I know this is an imposition, but is there ANY chance you might help us. Mr. Maitland is the number two prosecutor for the county and I’m the State Attorney’s secretary, but I wouldn’t try to pull rank. It’s just that Mr. Maitland was taking me out for my birthday. Can you believe I’m turning 35? I was really depressed. And I don’t mind walking, but –“
She did something that resembled a bump-and-grind but was really only her pivoting to show off her remarkable ass and legs and those damned nearly knee-high boots.
“You can see, the boots look good, but they’re so hard to walk in. I’d hate to celebrate a milestone in my life by breaking an ankle. So, is there ANYTHING you could do, please?”
He just stared at her for a moment, then glanced at me as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He turned on the ignition and said, “Please follow me, Ms…??”
“Martinez, Myra Martinez. And you are?”
“…Officer Wilkes. Barry Wilkes.”
“I’ll remember that name, Officer Wilkes.”
I think he shivered. Then he motioned to me.
“Follow me, Mr.—uh, sir – and I’ll take you to the delivery area. There are usually four or five spots there. I’ll give you a pass saying you’re there on official business”
When we were back in the Escalade I couldn’t help laughing.
“Now don’t you feel a little ashamed? That was like taking candy from a baby.”
She grinned back.
“You have a dirty mind, Mr. Maitland. He was just being nice. A sweet young man.”
“Uh huh. Have I told you lately that your ass should be on display in the Smithsonian? Uh, by the way…?”
She gave me a stern look but I didn’t think she was really angry.
“We don’t know each other THAT well, Mr. Maitland. Besides, I think that may still be illegal in this state.”
“I really believe if you check it out, that law and other related statutes were invalidated back in the 90s.”
“You’ve made a study of it?”
“No, but I’m pretty sure it’s no longer in effect.”
“Well, it’s still the law of the land in this car.”
But there was almost a smile on her lips. I put that aside for another day. We followed Officer
Wilkes around to a side road that was marked no entrance, pulled into an open spot and Myra took the “Official Business” sticker from him with a smile and a “Thank you so much, Officer Wilkes.”
“That was almost cruel,” I told her as we walked down the entranceway to the open air center of the Landing. As usual, there was a good crowd of men, woman and children sitting on the raised steps in front of a bandstand backing up to the St. Johns. A fairly good rock band was belting out Lynnard Skynnard and other Southern anthems to the delight of the crowd.
We made our way around the outer edge cutting behind the bandstand to a chorus of rebel yells, “hey babys” and “ditch grandpa.”
She just smiled and hooked her arm in mine as we made our way to Riverwalk and stepped down to the railing overlooking the river. The Main Street bridge was already decked out in red, blue and green Christmas lights. We walked along the riverside. I looked out at the lights of the Riverwalk and Friendship Fountain across the river. It was cold, it was crisp, I had Myra on my arm. It wasn’t a bad night to be alive.
At the Mexican Rose we turned and looked for seats. Nothing outside so we moved inside. Again it was a mob scene, and again I doubted that flashing my SA ID was going to be any help.
“Ciao, Mr. Maitland. Ms. Martinez.”
I looked through the crowd and located the caller sitting at a long table at the back of the main room. Deel was waving at us
“Come on back,” he called to me and then I saw Mitch McConnell sitting between two pretty young things.
“Yeah,” McConnell said, “Mr. Maitland, come on in. The water’s fine.”
I looked at Myra and she nodded.
“It might be fun. Besides, he’s cute.”
“I thought you weren’t a cradle robber? But that’s okay. Some of those young things with him probably have a Daddy complex in there somewhere.”
”They’re children.”
“True, but parts of them are all grown up.”
As we approached one of the young women hopped into McConnell’s lap and the Italian cutie Deel had been flirting with sat in his lap freeing up two chairs for us. I looked at Deel’s girl and the lipstick she’d already planted all over his face and said, “I gather you decided to just give her a stern warning about flouting our local laws?’
He smiled the smile of a happy man and said, “Yes, but I told her I’m going to have to give her a hard time later.
She just smiled and wiggled her bottom against him.
As we sat, the yacht owner stood and stretched his hand out of Myra.
“Signorina, we have not been introduced. I am Lucio Bianchi. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“Myra, Signore Bianchi was the owner – I believe – of a yacht that came up the St. Johns and distracted Officer Deel and McConnell today just before our friends from Satsuma showed up.”
“Oh? You own your own yacht Signore Bianchi?”
He nodded and dismissed the yacht with a wave of his hand.
“Si, but it is more of a tax write off than anything else. I sailed in college at San Diego and my second wife talked me into buying it. I don’t get it out much, but I had business in Miami. I thought it would be nice to sail it back with a couple of sailors for the hard work to Norfolk, where I’ll turn it over to a professional and have it sailed back to Naples where I keep it. The sail is a nice little bonus for Caprice and her friends.”
Caprice, sitting in Deel’s lap, said, “Signore Maitland, Barry was telling us about the cowboys that attacked you – with shotguns – and how he and Mitch saved you and the old man. You must be very proud to know such a hero.”
“Yeah – he’s full of it alright. Bravery that is.”
As we sat, Bianchi beside Myra and waitress approached, Myra looked at the girls and asked him, “So, what is your business and are these young girls your employees?”
He smiled at her and then glanced over the young women. They had changed into sweaters and tights to deal with the cold, but they could have been sprayed on.
“Not what you might be thinking, Signora. Caprice is the youngest at 19, Giada is 21, Eloisa is 24 and Gisella,” pointing to a flame-haired beauty who was trying to chew McConnell’s ear off, “is the old lady of the bunch at 26. Their business is looking young. They are all professional models. They work mostly the Italian circuit, Rome-Naples-Genoa-Milan, but I had an assignment come up in Miami and they jumped at the chance to do some work over here.”
“You manage models?” I said, looking over the quartet. The two who hadn’t attached themselves to Deel and McConnell were attracting a lot of interested stares from unattached males at the bar and they were looking back toward a few with definite interest. “Must be a tough life, but I guess somebody has to do it, right?”
“No, Signore Maitland,” Bianchi said, talking to me but unable to tear his eyes away from Myra’s chest as she took off the Armani coat and twisted to put it on the seat behind her.
“I am in the film production business. Actually the film commercial side of the business. I started out planning to become the next Felini and found out there was only one of him. But it turns out I have a flair for the visual and I’ve made a comfortable living in commercials. And a few music videos.”
He turned his attention away from me back to Myra and the almost-obscene blouse she was challenging.
“Signorina Martinez, have you ever done any modeling? I find it hard to believe you haven’t.”
She gave him a look that could only be described as flirty, a small Mona Lisa smile on her lips, and said, “And what would lead you to believe that, Signore?”
He made a general wave of his hand in her direction.
“How could you not, to be honest. You are – as the English would say – spectacular. I hope I am not offending you, Signore Maitland, but unless you are blind, you are already aware of that.”
He rubbed his chin.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Signorina, but there is something about you…something familiar. Have you done any kind of modeling, figure modeling, commercial or movie work abroad?”
She shook her head.
“I’m not the only woman with a nice figure in the world, Signore.”
She turned to me and said, “Why don’t you order for us, Bill. I’ll take a tequila and one small salad. Ask them if they know what a Green Lime Shrimp Ceviche is? If not I’ll take a small black beans and corn salad.”
When the waitress took the order back to the kitchen a few minutes passed before the chef/cook, a short balding gent with a three-day growth of beard, came out and stood at our table.
“Who ordered the Green Lime Shrimp Ceviche?”
She turned to smile at him.
“I’m afraid I did. Do you serve it?”
“Normally not, but I have prepared it, back in the days when I worked in Mexico City. I can prepare if you will give me a few moments. Can I ask you if you have had it, and where?”
“On a yacht off the Mexican Riviera. A friend of mine had a dinner prepared and brought in. I loved it.”
“He had extreme good taste, in all things.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have a half hour? It is impossible, but I will do it.”
“We have the time,” I told him.
While we were waiting I had a tequila with lime and rock salt on the rim, reminding me of that day on the Bonne Chance which seemed like a million years ago although it was less than six months. Deel was shoveling out bullshit by the yard and before long he had almost singlehanded fought off a sinister army of deadly cowboys protecting me. McConnell was almost crossing the line of the city’s obscenity ordinance with his old lady and I think she had crossed judging by what it looked like she was doing under the table.
Bianchi and I discussed film and commercials and crime, but he spent most of his time focused on Myra. Not that I could blame him. Myra was…Myra. She wasn’t flirting, exactly, and she didn’t do anything I could complain
about in any way. It was just that aura of sex that enveloped the table. But I’d been there many times before. Debbie had been the same way and if I couldn’t handle men lusting after my woman, we’d never have gone out.
Somewhere they managed to squeeze in a three man band and the waiters helped clear out a small space in front of the bar. They played a couple of Mexican tunes, then some Latin salsa stuff and the first couples were out there twisting and writhing and doing a pretty good imitation of upright sex.
Deel and Caprice were gone and the next thing I noticed they were out there, then McConnell and Gisella. The little dance floor filled up until people were stumbling over each other. In a minute Giada and Eloisa were out dancing with a couple of young men. A few couples were dancing on the open air patio facing onto the St. Johns. The music was infectious.
Bianchi tapped my hand on the table. Speaking loudly to be heard over the music, he asked, “Mr. Maitland, would you mind if I took your lady out for a dance? If she is willing.”
He was a good looking guy, owned his own yacht, and was obviously hot for Myra, but I couldn’t dance this stuff worth a damn. And Myra was already shifting that luscious ass in her seat to the beat. I knew she wouldn’t ask me if she thought I didn’t want to go out there, and she obviously wanted to dance.
“Sure, if Myra wants to dance, go ahead.”
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, reaching down to grab me where it felt the best and saying, “I’ll be thinking of this.”
Words fail me when it comes to describing her body in motion. Suffice it to say there must have been erections flaring in all directions. Bianchi had to adjust himself a couple of times. She massaged his front and then his back with the bobbing masses that filled out her blouse and there were a few times when he had to grab that ass to hold on. But he let go. Which must have taken a supreme effort.
She was smiling and laughing. What the hell. She was having a good time. A lot of guys were having a good time watching her. Before long a waiter came to the table threading around the dancers with a platter of the Lemon Shrimp Ceviche. During a short break in the music, she and Bianchi headed back to our table.
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