A Shark in Calle Ocho (11 page)

“Good. When?” she demanded.

Bob tried to get control of the conversation.

“Mary Catherine, I
will
finish the job. I’ll have enough hard evidence so that you can get your revenge on Shark—and it will happen soon.”

“Thank you,” she said and seemed to relax.

Bob looked into her eyes and said, concern in his voice, “Shark is responsible for your son’s death, but you have to be careful. The hatred you feel for Shark could eventually destroy you.”

Mary Catherine said nothing. She just collected her Louis Vuitton handbag, stood, and left. Bob walked to the front door of his office building and watched her leave. Her face was a block of stone, with no change in her bitter expression.

Bob was startled when Miss Garza patted him on the back and said, shaking her head, “That lady’s spirit is sick.”

“Yeah, and the sickness is getting worse,” he said as Mary Catherine drove her Porsche out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

Bob plopped down in his chair and let out a sigh.

“Where do I start?” he asked himself as he looked around his desk. The Miami Herald was still open to the story of Mary Catherine’s son. He casually picked it up and started reading it again. He looked at the picture that accompanied the story, showing a police diver emerging from the waters of the bay. All of a sudden, Bob’s heart leapt. He nearly shouted, “Marijuana debris.” He grabbed the paper and did a little dance, then suddenly stopped as something at the door caught his eye. It was Miss Garza.

“I didn’t know whether to laugh or call the ambulance,” she said, an amused look on her face.

Embarrassed, Bob said, “I’m going to the
Herald
tomorrow.”

***

Nash Tillman’s mother always told him that nothing good goes on after midnight. He was brought up in an evangelical home in north Florida. His parents were good people and had a strong belief in Biblical values. Nash was the black sheep of the family and had a different belief system. He thought it was easier to lie and steal than face the consequences. It was 3:00 a.m., well past midnight, and he was pressing the call button on Shark’s massive gates.

“Yes, Mr. Tillman?” a guard’s voice said over the loud speaker.

“I need to speak to Shark.” Nash waited a moment, then the gates split open, and he drove in.

The doors opened and a huge guard filled the space as he walked up the steps.

“It’s late, don’t you think?”

“I need to speak to Shark,” Nash said, trying to walk past the behemoth. The big man’s hand almost covered Nash’s entire chest and stopped him in his tracks.

The guard bent down to within an inch of Nash’s face.

“Go another step, and I’ll break you in half.” Nash swallowed deeply and froze. The guard walked down the hall, then turned around and said, “Not a step closer, toothpick.”

Moments later, Shark came out in slacks and a white shirt. No tie, no jacket—this was Shark “dressed down.”

“We need to talk,” Nash said.

“Do we now?” Shark responded, stepping closer. “At this hour I assume it’s rather important.”

“It is, Shark,” Nash said, fiddling with his hands and shifting from one foot to another and already starting to regret coming to his mansion. “You know I’m always loyal to you, Shark.”

“No, I actually don’t know that, Nash. You’ve always come across to me as a snake in the grass,” Shark said, now standing only a couple feet away from him. “Maybe the information you have for me will change my opinion.”

“Oh, it will, Shark—I promise,” Nash said through a smile. “Some of your closest associates met today. They’re planning to do you in tomorrow at the meeting so they can take over the business. I was totally against it, but I kept my mouth shut. You know—kinda like a spy. A spy for Shark.”

“Who was at the meeting?” Shark asked. Nash was becoming more comfortable; he named them one by one.

“Well, well, well. My friends, my closest associates have plans to do me in,” Shark said, looking up toward the ceiling.

“Yeah, that’s right Shark, but I’m loyal. I’m your friend,” Nash said.

“Are you?” Shark asked, sending chills up Nash’s body. “You are a spineless twit. The moment I turn my back there’ll be a knife in it. The knife will be from you. I have more respect for the idiots at today’s meeting than for a snake like you.”

Nash began to back away from Shark, pleading, “No, Shark—I’m loyal only to you. I promise.”

“I hate snakes,” Shark said, slipping his hand into his right pocket and grasping an old friend. “Do you know the best way to do away with snakes?”

“Please, Shark, please. I came here to prove I’m with you,” Nash said, making a final argument.

“I cut their heads off.” With blinding quickness, he pulled the dagger he stole at Carnival years ago and sliced open Nash’s throat. Nash grabbed at the wound, but it was too late. He collapsed on the floor, and the last sight he saw was Shark’s smiling face, and him cleaning off the dagger.

***

It was a beautiful morning for a drive in Miami. Matter of fact, it was always a beautiful morning for a drive in Miami—unless a hurricane was pounding it, that is. Bob and the beauty queen were headed to the
Herald
to find Brandy Montgomery, the photographer credited with the picture that showed the marijuana debris. Bob planned to just ask a few questions about what she saw that night and see if he could come up with more leads and evidence against Shark, but with Bob nothing was ever simple.

Bob arrived at the paper and asked for Brandy at the reception desk. The elderly receptionist smiled and paged the photographer.

“Brandy will be with you in a moment,” she said and pointed to a chair in the lobby. Bob sat and found an old issue of
Modern Science.

He was soon caught up in a story about energy efficient airplanes when he heard an angelic voice. He peeked over the magazine and was greeted by an angel.
Oh I wish I was reading something cooler
, he thought.

Brandy was in her early thirties with brunette hair that fell to her waist. At five feet, she had an athletic build, a dark Florida tan, and a million dollar smile that Bob found hypnotic.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“I want a picture of you,” he said.

“
What?
”

“Oh, Lord—no. I didn’t mean that. I need your picture.”

She backed away and eyed the receptionist, who was picking up the phone.

“No, please—I’m sorry! You just caught me by surprise. Please don’t call the police! I’m not their favorite person right now,” Bob said, looking at the receptionist.

“Who are you, and why don’t the police like you?” Brandy said, concerned.

“No—it’s not like that,” Bob said, waving his hands. “I’m not an axe murderer or anything.”

“That’s a relief,” she said, scrutinizing his puny frame.

Bob laughed, took in a deep breath and extended his hand.

“I’m Bob, and I was wondering about one of your photos that ran in the paper.”

As she shook his hand, he tried not to let her see the fireworks going off in his mind when their hands touched.

“Come back to my desk, and we’ll see which photo you’re talking about.”

As they walked off, the receptionist shook her head.

“Brandy always takes in the strays.”

They sat down in a gray Herman Miller cubicle. Bob looked around and shuddered.

Seeing his reaction, Brandy said, “I know—a cubicle. They want you to be creative, and they put you in a gray cubicle. I hate it.”

“I know,” he said with excitement. “That’s why I became a bounty hunter.”

Brandy shook her head and chuckled.

“You became a bounty hunter because of a gray cubicle?” She looked at him and said, “You, a bounty hunter?”

Bob returned the chuckle.

“I know—I don’t look like a bounty hunter. I don’t use these.” He flexed his biceps and instantly knew he made a mistake. “But I use this.” He pointed to his head.

“Have you caught anyone?”

“Oh yeah—I caught a few.” That was a lie, but it sounded better than the truth, which was one.

“You must be a genius then.” She laughed, and Bob sat there with a blank expression, trying to figure out the joke. “You know—your supreme brain power.”

“Oh yeah.” He laughed. “Actually, you don’t have to have much to outsmart most of them.”

“Um,” she added.

“Yeah,” Bob said as they fell awkwardly silent. In his mind, though, he was screaming to gather up his cool and not to lose this awesome creature of beauty.

“What about the photo?” she asked, finally breaking the silence.

Bob suddenly sat straight up and said, “Oh, yeah—the photo. It ran a week or two ago—the ambulance crash in the bay. I was wondering if I could have a color copy of it, and if you could blow up the area around the diver.”

“Sure—I don’t see why not. It’ll just take a second.” She turned around to her computer, brought up the photo and began to work on it.

A moment later a color laser printer beside her came to life, and the picture slid out.

She handed the photo to Bob and said, “Here you go. Will that do?”

He looked it over. The marijuana debris was visible in the photo.

“Oh yeah,” he said victoriously. “Come to papa.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting that kind of response. Maybe just a thank-you or something.”

“I’m sorry. This photo is so good, and it’s helped me a lot. Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not every day I can help a cute bounty hunter.”

If she only knew what kind of emotion that ignited in Bob she’d have run for her life.

“Hey, I tell you what—how about letting me take you for a café Cubano. I know a great little—”

“Maybe some other time,” she interrupted. “It’s getting late in the day, and all that caffeine will keep me up at night—and I
am
under a deadline.”

“So that’s not a no?” Bob asked.

“That’s a ‘maybe some other time.’”

With a huge smile, Bob got up from his seat and said, “I look forward to that time.”

“Okay, Bob.” She waved.

Bob floated from her desk and went down the hall and back to the receptionist area.

With a spin move that Frank Sinatra would admire, he pointed a finger and raised his eyebrows to the woman and said, “Now you have a wonderful day, Beautiful.”

“Oh my,” she said, putting her hands to her ample bosom, and with that Bob left the building.

***

Shark and his close associates could have afforded to have any board room in Miami’s lush business district, but they weren’t running just any business. Shark’s criminal web spread through over a dozen businesses in Little Havana and throughout Miami. These men were hungry carnivores with Shark at the top of the food chain, and Casa de los Habanos was the den in which they met.

Casa de los Habanos was a cigar shop located on 8th Street. Within its walls labored six cigar rollers who’d been there for nearly fifteen years. Their expertise showed in their product, which was sought after all over the nation. They sat at simple wooden tables that resembled large desks in an old west schoolroom and were lined along the south wall of the building. Below the desks, small patches of tobacco leaves were starting to group from the morning’s work. Pictures of Cuba’s past hung on the light tan walls above them, and the afternoon sun shone through the front windows dressed with white curtains that flowed with the tropical breeze. Lining the walls behind the century-old checkout counter were other cigar brands that the consumer could buy. Their heads were down in concentration as the associates came in one by one. The click-clack of their expensive shoes on the hardwood floor kept a beat with the single ceiling fan in the middle of the room, momentarily breaking the rollers’ concentration. They lifted their heads and gave each associate a slight nod as they went through the nondescript door into the back of the shop. Through the door many deals had been made in the underworld of Little Havana that had molded and shaped it. The room was small, comfortably sitting only eight to ten men. It had no windows, and the light came from a single bulb in a ceiling fan directly above the few pieces of furniture: a round table and chairs.

Shark had arrived early because he wanted to look each of them in the eye and greet them with a smile and a warm hug. On the outside he was an appreciative mob boss, but on the inside he was a vengeful animal ready to sink his teeth and claws into their flesh. He was Shark.

Hector, Aedan, Ramiro, and Carlos had arrived within minutes of each other. When they entered they found a smiling Shark waiting for them. Already a cloud of cigar smoke was building.

When they were gathered together, they started looking around for Nash.

Shark heard their questions and said, “I saw Nash. He’s not feeling well—complaining about his throat.”

They looked at each other questioningly and thought that Nash had run. They’d have to track him down and take care of him later. They never saw the trap that Shark laid before them.

“Well, fellas, I guess it’s time to get down to business,” Shark began. “But before we do, I’d like to tell you a story.” The men had puzzled looks on their faces, but none wanted to upset the boss.

“One time there was a very poor boy living on the Little Havana streets,” he started. “This little boy couldn’t help that he was brought into their world poor. He couldn’t help that his shoes and clothes were tattered, torn and filthy, but that didn’t matter to the people he saw everyday on the streets and in the stores. They looked at him like he was an animal, like he was below them, and if they touched him they’d be dirty too. Store clerks would watch him when he came in to make sure he didn’t steal anything. Cops would stop him on the streets and hassle him, telling him he was nothing and that he was going to wind up in a jail one day. Mothers of other boys wouldn’t let him play with them because they didn’t want him to influence them.”

Seeing they were captivated by his story, Shark stood and started walking around them.

“They treated him like he was stupid, like he couldn’t read or write.” He stopped to think a moment. “And you know, maybe that was correct. But you know what they didn’t take into consideration? That he was street smart. That he was a survivor. That he had an inner drive that none of them had. That he could read their faces, their actions.”