by Ted Bell
“Getting there, getting there,” Stoke said, talking comfortably despite his fierce exertions. “More you sweat in training, less you bleed in battle.”
“You got that right,” the Sharkman said. “By the way, I got you something for Christmas. Put it under the big tree in your front hall.”
“I got you something, too. Put it in the trunk of your Camaro. You’re going to love it.”
“I’m going to get another frosty. Get you another eggnog while I’m in the kitchen?”
“Why not? It’s Christmas, ain’t it, Sharkbait? Got to live a little.”
Sharkey got up and sprinted up the wide white marble steps to the main house, a sprawling white British Colonial mansion. Sitting atop the highest piece of land on Key Biscayne, the place had spectacular views of the sparkling blue bay by day and the twinkling lights of Miami by night. The house had been left to Fancha by her late husband, Momo Marino. He was a Sicilian with deep ties to his Brooklyn crew and the Cosa Nostra back home in Sicily.
The husband, a smiling fat man who used to call himself the Mayor of Miami Beach was in reality a brutal little thug, a made man, a kingpin in the South Florida rackets and cocaine trade. The night death finally rang his bell, Big Momo was sitting between two hookers on a banquette at the Alhambra, a classy Miami Beach nightclub.
Onstage was the Alhambra’s shining star, his wife, Fancha. Hailing from the Cape Verde Islands, the elegant beauty was one of the most successful crooners in the music business, having had two of her more recent Cape Verde fado albums go to the top of the Billboard charts.
“Mr. Mayor?” a small man with a big gun said. Because the man was swarthy and wore an impeccable white dinner jacket, the mayor took him for a new maître d’.
“Fuck you want?”
“This is for you, Señor Hijo de Puta,” the tiny gangster said, putting a bullet hole the size of a quarter smack-dab in the middle of the son of a whore’s forehead.
And from that day forward, at least until the day that she met and fell in love with one Stokely Jones Jr., the beautiful nightclub singer Fancha was known around Miami Beach as the Merry Widow.
The Merry Widow with a hundred million dollars under the mattress.
Chapter Fifteen
Hawke couldn’t sleep.
After he had spent a solid hour trying to find comfort on a steel cot with no pillow and one threadbare blanket, a copper came to his cell to say that he was being released. Congreve’s calls to the Yard and the CIA had resulted in his swift release. He’d immediately gotten permission to make one phone call.
He called his good friend Blinky Schultz, MI6 chief of station in Zurich.
“Come get me, Blinky.”
“Alex? Good god. Do you know what time it is?”
“Too late or too early, for sure. I’m at the bloody jailhouse in St. Moritz, they just released me.”
“Christ. What did you do now?”
“Got into a bit of a brawl with some helo pilots and lost. Blinky, you’ve got to help me. Alexei has been taken.”
“What do you mean, taken?”
“Taken. Kidnapped. Stolen away from me.”
“Do you have any idea who could have done it?”
“No. It was during the aerial tramway disaster. He was lost being transferred to hospital.”
“All right. Try to calm down. I’ll leave now and can be there in under an hour. No traffic this time of night.”
He said thanks and sat down on a hard wooden bench to wait. He must have fallen asleep because a second later, a copper was grabbing him by the shoulder saying, “Wake up, sir. Man’s waiting outside in the car.”
Walking out into the deserted snowy streets, he’d almost hoped to a see a nondescript sedan parked nearby, with two invisible grey men sitting up front, men who would follow them wherever they went. Kidnappers who knew the whereabouts of Alexei, men whom he could confront in an alley and beat the living daylights out of.
It didn’t happen that way.
He’d climbed into Blinky’s Volvo and they drove across town to Badrutt’s Palace Hotel. The lobby bar was still open, a few patrons at one end of the long bar. More desperate for sleep than alcohol, he bade his friend good night and trudged up the wide carpeted steps to the third floor. At the end of the corridor were two heavy mahogany doors, his suite.
He’d gone straight to bed but had lain awake for hours, staring up at the dark ceiling, waiting for the pink spread of dawn to appear in the windows of his bedroom. He’d left the television on with the sound muted, scouring coverage footage of this morning’s accident before finally falling asleep.
Local news was naturally chock-full of coverage of the tramway accident. TV crews at both hospitals, survivors covered in blankets, weeping parents; plus aerial footage of the damaged gondola being whipped about by the high winds at that altitude. Terrorism had been ruled out.
But, not a mention, not a single bloody word, about one of the children having gone missing during the rescue operation! Only a brief report of a violent disturbance at Swiss Air-Rescue headquarters that had resulted in the arrest of a foreign national. A man whose name was being withheld by the police for diplomatic reasons.
Well, that was good news, wasn’t it? On this most hellish of days?
He looked at his watch. “Christ in heaven,” he said and reached up and lit the sconce on the wall above him. It was nearly four a.m. He saw the smudgy nightcap glass from the bathroom on the bedside table. He winced at the sight. There was still a little whiskey remaining in it, and he started to reach for it.
Yes? No?
No. He grabbed the nearly empty pack of Morland cigarettes, plucked one out, and stuck it between his lips. His old steel Zippo flared and then, greedy for the smoke burn, he inhaled deeply. Ah. Better. Stirred by the sudden explosion of warmth inside him, he waited for the nicotine to kick in, gathered what was left of his wits, and took an accounting of matters where they stood.
His mobile was buzzing on the bedside table. He picked it up, saw that it was his pilot.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. He felt like his day was finally under way.
“Morning, sir. Just a brief update. I have Chief Inspector Congreve aboard. We are out on the tarmac, on a brief hold before wheels up in ten minutes.”
“Excellent, Chris. The old man is in good form?”
“Raring to go, sir. Happy to be back in the saddle, I’d say.”
Hawke laughed. “That’s him. Already donning his cloak and clutching his dagger. What time are you anticipating arrival in St. Moritz?”
“Touching down at SMV-Samedan in just about three hours, sir. No weather on the way, lovely morning for flying.”
“Good, good. See you then.”
He shut down his phone and lay his weary head back against the pillows. Reflected that a few moments of quiet contemplation were always helpful in times like these.
Finally sleep came. It came with nightmares.
But it came.
Chapter Sixteen
The second Stoke saw the Sharkman emerge into the sunlight and sprint down the steps to the pool, he knew something was very, very wrong.
“Stoke!” Sharkey called as he ran, “you gotta come inside, man! The boss is on the landline for you. Whatever it is, it’s not good, man! He sounds terrible.”
Stoke leapt to his feet and grabbed Sharkey’s arm. “Shark, it’s Hawke?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“What did he say?”
“You gotta come, man, that’s all, you gotta come!”
Stoke dashed up the broad marble steps and into the cool of the long center hall, where a real live phone sat on the sideboard.
“Boss?”
“Stoke. I’ve been calling your mobile.”
“Oh, shit. Yeah. Left it on the charger up in the bedroom. Sorry. You okay? You don’t sound so good.”
“Somebody’s taken Alexei, Stoke.”
“Fuck.”
“I’ll tell yo
u the details when you get here.”
“Ah, Jesus, boss. Ah, shit. Alexei? Oh, man.”
“We need to find him. Fast. Who knows what these people are after?”
“Ransom note?”
“No. There was no ransom note, nothing. He just . . . disappeared.”
“All right. I’m on it. On my way right now, you know that. Tell me where I’m going.”
“I’m in St. Moritz. There’s a nonstop Swissair flight in the morning. Miami International to Zurich. There’ll be a driver waiting in baggage claim.”
“Hell happened, boss?”
“No idea. There was a tram accident. He literally disappeared. Ambrose is on the way here right now. If anybody can figure this out, it’s him. Then we go get him and bring him home. Right?”
“Right is right, boss. Right is right. I got Sharkey here with me for Christmas. Want me to put him on the payroll?”
“I’ll leave that one up to you. Sure, bring him. Listen. One more thing.”
“Shoot.”
“We’re going to need a war room here in the hotel. So as soon as you two have checked in, get on that. Encrypted communications, two coffee pots, whiteboards, iPads, you know the drill. I’ve taken one of the meeting rooms on the top floor, already booked it in your name. All clear?”
“State of the art, coming up, boss.”
“Good,” Hawke said, and he was gone.
Fancha said good-bye to Sharkey at the front door, giving him a big hug. Sharkey smiled and said to Stoke, “Hey! Don’t forget your Christmas present, man! It’s right there under that sparkly white tree.”
“Aw, man, you didn’t have to get me anything,” Stoke said as he opened the box to find an enormous red cashmere V-neck sweater. He said, “That’s beautiful! Lemme put it on . . . I love red sweaters, how’d you know that, man?” He pulled it over his head and it actually fit.
Sharkey gave Fancha a peck on the cheek. Then the two men strolled down the walk to the sweeping circular drive, where a large white fountain filled with spouting mermaids spewed jets of water twenty feet into the air. A flock of brilliantly colored tropical birds swooped in and took up residence in the trees surrounding the fountain.
Stoke said, “That your new Camaro over there, Sharkbait? Hot damn. That’s some serious weaponry right there. “What engine you get?”
“A 6.2L V-8 Direct Injection.”
“Hot shit, man. Let me see inside.”
He walked Sharkey over to his new car. First automobile the little Cuban had ever owned that had both a roof and a floor at the same time. He was going to miss Christmas dinner, a royal treat, prime rib rare at the Jones household, but there was nothing to be done about it. Man had to race down to the Keys, return to Maria, and pack a bag for the mission to Switzerland. Pack his shaving kit, his clothes, his machete and his Duran Duran CDs.
“What you think, bossman?” Sharkey said, running his hand lovingly over the gleaming purple flanks of his new car. “Something else, right?”
“Nice Camaro, Shark. Unusual color. What color is that?” Stoke said to his friend, who was just now donning his trademark yellow porkpie hat.
“Old blue jean, the guy at the Chevy dealer said. Something like that. Damn if I know what it is.”
“Say what? What color he tell you?”
“I told you, man. Old blue jean.”
“Old blue jean? You mean, like Levis?”
“What he said.”
Stoke laughed as Shark got in the car and fired her up.
“It ain’t old blue jean. It’s aubergine, buddy.”
“Ober-what?”
“Aubergine. That’s what fancy white folk call eggplant.”
“Eggplant? Wait. My car is eggplant-colored?”
“Yeah, it is. But you don’t have to tell anybody that. Just tell people it’s old blue jean, man. They won’t know! Hey, want to see your Christmas present before you go?”
“Hell, yes, I do! Where is it?”
“Get out the car, man. It’s back here in the trunk.”
“Don’t tell me you got me a new tire jack . . .”
“Just pop the trunk, Shark, you’ll see. Gonna love it!”
Shark held out his key fob and pushed the remote lock button, bending forward to peer inside. He nearly fell down as he jumped back to avoid the giant breasts and garish face of a huge, overly inflated sex doll. He backpedaled as the super realistic woman came exploding out of the Camaro’s trunk and flew ten feet up in the air, landing on her back atop the Camaro’s rooftop.
“Ain’t she beautiful?” Stoke said, grabbing her by the ankle and pulling her down to eye level. “Lookie here, she floats! I had them fill her with extra helium just for fun. Her name’s Angelique. Someone to keep you warm on those cold lonely winter nights on your boat, brother! You like her? Very realistic in every way . . . and, I mean every way, and, as I said, she floats!”
Shark was staring at Angelique, unable to put her into some kind of context.
“I—I don’t know what to say, Stoke. I mean, yeah, she’s great and all, but how do I smuggle her aboard Maria? All my crew down on the docks, they’ll be laughing and—they bound to see her, right? Think I’m some kind of deviate or something, a sick puppy or something.”
“Shark, listen up, that’s part of the fun of the present. She’s a natural born conversation starter wherever you go! Put her up front with you on the drive down to Islamorada! Relax. Get to know her a little bit on the trip to Cheeca. She’ll grow on you, I promise. Hell, I thought about getting one just like her, but you know Fancha would kick my ass.”
Shark, climbing behind the wheel as Stoke stuffed Angelique through the passenger side window said, “I don’t know about this blow-up chick thing, man . . . It’s a little weird, right? Perverted?”
Stoke smiled and buckled Sharkey’s new girlfriend’s seat belt, strapping her in tight.
“I just don’t want you to be lonely, man. Get back up here as fast as you can, man. Boss needs us bad.”
“Hasta luego, amigo,” Shark said, cranking the Camaro.
The happy couple drove off into the sunset side by side.
Stoke, still smiling as he strode up the drive to the entrance of Casa Che Canta, put his arm around his wife and ducked into the cool of the tiled interior hallway.
“You got to love that little dude,” he said to his wife.
“No, you got to hope he can help you find Alex Hawke’s little boy, Stokely Jones, Junior. That’s what you got to do.”
“Wait. You mean I get my own room?” Sharkey Gonzales-Gonzales said next morning as they boarded the Swiss Air widebody. It was the Sharkman’s first transatlantic crossing, and it was in first class, no less. Stoke had gotten lucky, got the last two seats available.
“That’s right, brother man,” Stoke said, smiling. “And you see that seat?”
“Yeah.”
“Turns into a bed.”
“No.”
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the stewardess said. “Can I help with anything? Champagne?”
Sharkey plucked a glass of champagne from the tray and knocked it back. Then took another. Stoke smiled at the pretty girl in the light blue uniform.
“He doesn’t believe me that the seat turns into a bed.”
She smiled at Sharkey, “Oh, but it does, Mr. Gonzalez-Gonzales. Watch. I’ll show you.”
She pushed all the right buttons and Sharkey’s jaw dropped as the seat unfolded itself like a Swiss Army knife.
“Fuck me, amigo!” an excited Shark shouted, way too loud for the confined space. “It is a bed!”
All the air was sucked out of first class. Stone silence. The little one-armed Cuban fisherman in the yellow porkpie hat and purple sport coat realized that all the rich folks were looking at him in various states of semi-shock.
“Tell the nice people you’re sorry, Sharkey,” Stoke said, smiling at all the passengers. “These folks unaccostumed to such profanity.”
“Damn right, I
’m sorry! I am so fucking sorry it’s unbelievable! Okay. I’m sorry.”
“Sit down, Sharkbait, sit down and shut up and drink your champagne.”
“Thanks, Stoke. This is really nice up here, man. First class! Like a palace . . .”
“You’re welcome. Hey, you bring Angelique with you? She in your carry-on bag?”
“Who?”
“Angelique. Your new blow-up girlfriend.”
“Oh, no, no, man. I didn’t bring her,” Shark said, his voice a fierce whisper.
“Why the hell not?”
Sharkey whispered in Stoke’s ear. “’Cause I would’ve had to deflate her to get her through security! And, if I deflated her, I wouldn’t have known how to reflate her, that’s why. Plus, her left leg has a leak. She sorta whistles all night. I put a band-aid on it and tried to blow her back up last night and I . . . And I . . . ah, shit. I’ll be honest. I already miss that woman, amigo.”
“True love,” Stoke said, “is a wonderful thing.”
And the two amigos were off to sunny Switzerland.
Chapter Seventeen
St. Moritz
Alex Hawke’s midnight-blue Gulfstream VII came sliding up the wide valley, soaring over snow-covered fields and white mountaintops, picture-postcard towns of rooftops and steeples and flower-box windows that would be bursting with red geraniums come next summer. Hawke watched her land and taxi toward the observation platform, where he waited for the arrival of Ambrose Congreve. His best friend since early childhood.
Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve of Scotland Yard was a world-renowned criminalist, a giant brain of a man the press usually referred to as Britain’s Demon of Mass Deduction. He was, Hawke thought, an almost supernaturally ingenious detective, a man whose entire life had revolved around finding a great mystery and then using his razor-keen intellect to bend that mystery to his will. Between the two of them, they’d cracked some of the toughest cases on record in the last decade. And had stopped even the deadliest evil dead in its tracks.