A Shark in Calle Ocho (12 page)

He walked behind Hector and bent down so he was just an inch away from the man’s ear and said, “They did not know that he had this knack—no wait, this gift for even reading their minds.”

Hector closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to keep his wits about him. He felt his body begin to tremble. He had not felt fear like this since he was a child. Shark was so close to him that he felt the heat off his body.

Shark straightened, still close to Hector, and reached into his pocket. Hector was frozen in fear like a fawn in the woods. The others seemed to be in a trance, not knowing whether to run or to stay and fight.

Hector gave a sudden yelp when Shark grabbed a hunk of his thick black hair.

Shouting, Shark said, “You see, boys, that young kid was me. When I was a child, people looked down on me.” He shook Hector’s head violently, and he began to jabber as tears formed in his eyes. The cigar rollers suddenly appeared through the door, but instead of simple cigar rollers they were Shark’s henchmen equipped with automatic weapons all pointing in their direction. The associates were horrified. At that moment, they knew their lives were about to end.

“People no longer look down at me, but now they try to steal what I killed for. What I stole for. What I have worked night and day for years to get where I am today.” Shark’s voice rose in a steady crescendo. “I am Shark. I am king, and
nobody
can take my place.” With that, Shark took out the dagger and opened Hector’s throat. He then slammed his face down on the table, and blood started immediately to puddle before the others’ eyes. Shark straightened his jacket.

The rollers still had their guns ready as shark backed away from the table and said simply, “You are dead.”

Gunfire exploded in the small room, and the associates were wiped out, their horrified gazes frozen on their faces as their bodies were riddled with slugs. Shark never looked back. After the guns went silent, the attendant behind the counter called the fire department and reported a fire at Casa de los Habanos while the rollers soaked the bodies with kerosene and lit them.

With sirens blazing in the distance, Shark climbed into the backseat of a BMW 7 Series and said, “I believe that went well. Time to go home.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Shark was relaxing at home when Lauren charged into his den.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She was the only person who could question Shark’s authority.

Never changing his expression, he said, “Don’t worry, love—I have it all under control.”

“Under
control
? You call four people shot full of bullets and a store nearly burned down under control? Antonio, there were cop cars, ambulances and fire trucks all over the neighborhood.”

Shark got up from his leather sofa, walked toward Lauren and took firm hold of her face. “Understand this. The ambulances were from Care, the cops are on my payroll—and, well, the fire fighters were there to just fight the fire. No one is above Shark.”

Lauren grabbed his hands and pulled them from her face.

She stepped away from him with her back turned and said, “That doesn’t mean you can’t be brought down.”

He didn’t bother to follow; instead he raised his arms outward, gestured to the accumulated wealth in his mansion, and said, “Who can touch this?”

She spun around and crossed her arms.

“You’re getting sloppy.”

“Sloppy?
Sloppy
?” he said, laughing. “I’m covered in all areas, Lauren. No one can come at me without my knowing.”

“What about that bounty hunter? You didn’t finish him off.”

Shark laughed louder.

“That stupid little fool? He was an amateur. I bet he’s at a fast food joint right now scooping fries.”

“You never can tell,” Lauren said, arms still crossed, a worried look on her face.

Shark came to her, uncrossed her arm, and put them around him.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll take care of everything.”

***

Bob reached his office toward the end of the day. He’d been too excited to go directly back. He wanted to cruise around, so he spent most of the afternoon going up and down the beach with the windows down and the Latino station blaring. Miss Garza met him at the front door, a concerned look on her face. She was clutching her beloved cordless phone, which was the bridge to her vast network of blued-haired gossips.

“What’s wrong, Miss Garza?”

“There was a fire at Casa de los Habanos.”

“I hate that,” he said, walking past her. “Was anybody hurt?”

“That’s just it. Anna, who is my friend who works at the grocery store right down from it, said they found four bodies, and right before the fire started she said she heard what sounded like gunfire.”

“Really? That’s strange,” said Bob on his way to his door.

“Bob?”

He stopped.

“Yes, Miss Garza?”

“Anna said that Cynthia, who owns the coffee counter right across the street from Casa de los Habanos, said she saw him walk out right before it started burning.”

“Saw whom, Miss Garza?” Bob said, his interest now piqued.

Miss Garza looked around, as if to watch out for unwanted listeners, and whispered, “Shark.”

Bob could feel the blood drain out of his face. He fumbled with the keys to unlock his door and rushed in. He stopped and poked his head back out the door.

“Thanks, Miss Garza—you’ve been a big help.” He left her there, still looking around, clutching her cordless.

***

As he walked down the corridor, gray cubicles on one side and supervisors’ offices on the other, Juan Hernandez felt like he had a sign that said “suspicious” hanging over his head. He’d promised to help Bob bring down his killers even if it meant putting his life on the line like he was doing today. As he walked to Capt. Finnely’s office, he played with the mini-recorder in his pocket, flipping it over and over in his hands, speaking only curtly to those he passed along the way. As he neared the captain’s office, his heart began to beat faster, and his palms began to sweat. He quickly slipped through the doors and to the desk covered with various files. Five years ago, Capt. Finnely was Miami’s Policeman of the Year. A plaque on Cap’s desk reminded all visitors and associates of this. Juan raised the dusty plaque and placed the voice activated mini-recorder under it. He quickly left the office with a sigh of relief and a feeling of pride.

Chapter Eleven

Brandy groaned when her phone rang as she was gathering her purse to leave for the evening. It had been a long day, and she just wanted a relaxing evening at home.

“Hey, Brandy,” came a voice. “This is Bob. I know we talked just a few hours ago, but I had some questions, and I really need your help. Can we meet tomorrow morning?”

She caught herself smiling at the sound of his voice, not entirely sure why.

“Well, Bob the Bounty Hunter, I guess it wouldn’t hurt. Just promise you won’t take me on any wild chases.”

Bob’s eyes widened at the thought that she might be flirting with him.

“Why, no, Brandy—I wouldn’t dream of it. I know this great coffee counter on 8th Street. Sound good?”

“Sounds good.”

“Great. We can meet at my office. You got the address, right?”

“Oh, yeah—it’s on the business card you accidentally left on my desk,” she said through a smile as she played with a strand of her hair. As she hung up, Brandy wondered why she was flirting.

***

Juan waited several hours before he attempted to go back into Cap’s office to retrieve his precious mini-recorder. He did make several trips past his office to glance in, and thirty minutes earlier he’d seen Cap on his cellphone in what seemed like an intense conversation. He hoped his hunch on who he was talking to was correct—Shark—but he didn’t know what they were talking about. He’d find out when Cap left his office.

Juan again slipped through the door and hurriedly went to the plaque, lifted it and snatched the recorder. As he set the plaque down, he sensed someone’s presence. He spun around to see Cap with a quizzical look on his face.

“Juan, what are you doing?” he asked.

He thought fast.

“Oh, Cap,” he said, laughing nervously. “I was admiring your plaque. I want to be Policeman of the Year someday. Got any advice?” Juan was playing off the man’s huge ego.

Cap’s face lit up, and he said, “Sit down. Want some coffee?” And so it began—good advice from a bad cop.

***

Calle Ocho seems to run on caffeine, with many coffee counters up and down the street. Coffee counters are little restaurant windows that serve bracing shots of Cuban coffee—which is as strong as the cigars they roll. Many enjoy the café Cubano, a syrupy concoction that’s taken in one or two gulps like an espresso. The tan colored drink is served throughout the day as visitors come up to the windows and give their order. Bob had one particular coffee counter in mind to take Lauren to, but before he met her he ran down a checklist in front of the mirror.

“Hair combed—check. Face washed and teeth brushed—check. Clothes match—check.

“Oh, dear Lord—what am I doing?” Bob said with his head down as he braced himself on the lavatory. “I haven’t gone on a date since junior high, and then she wound up punching me out.” He started to break out in a nervous sweat and said, “Oh great—I’m sweating.”

The phone interrupted his case of nerves.

“Hello?”

“Bob, this is Juan. I only have a moment, so just listen,” the cop said. He was talking in a hushed tone and seemed to be out of breath. “I have something for you that’ll help you with your project. Meet me at Versailles tonight at eight.”

Before Bob could answer, Juan hung up.

Juan’s call was still heavy on Bob’s mind when he entered his office building and was greeted by a smiling Miss Garza holding an artificial bouquet close to her bosom.

“Bob,” she sang. “Somebody is here to see you.” She switched to a whisper. “And it’s not one of your clients. Here you go.” She handed him the flowers and whispered, “Women love flowers.”

“Wow,” Bob said, looking over the gift dubiously. “This will get me lots of brownie points.”

She patted Bob on the shoulder and growled, “Go get ’em,
tigre
.”

“Thanks,” Bob said, walking past her and thinking,
So this is what prom must have felt like.

When he opened his door, the sight of Brandy nearly gave him a coronary, but he quickly calmed down and managed to squeak.

“Ready for some café Cubano?”

Brandy had been inspecting some pictures of the beauty queen on his desk, thinking it was odd but cute to have photos of a broken-down classic car on your desk.

“Hi, Bob—just looking at your pictures.”

She was wearing a light blue sun dress that left her shoulders and arms bare. They had a muscular trimness to them and were lightly tanned. She left her hair down and flowing to the middle of her back.

“I’m ready,” she said with a million dollar smile that melted Bob’s heart.

“Oh—here you go.” He handed Brandy the flowers. “They won’t need water anytime soon.”

She laughed and said, “Oh, Bob—you’re so silly.” She mentally scolded herself for sounding like a love-struck school girl.

Bob was glad that the counter was just a few blocks away, which meant he’d have less time to say something stupid. He mostly listened and asked an occasional question about her work or family. He learned that she was from Chicago and had moved to Miami because it was warmer and not usually as windy. She also had three Siamese cats, missed her family and had a childhood crush on Patrick Swayze that continued through high school.

As they came to the window, Bob said, “Don’t worry about Patrick—I still have a crush on Wonder Woman. I guess it’s just something about that rope.”

She slapped him on the arm and laughed.

“Oh Bob.” Again she reminded herself not to sound love-struck.

An elderly Cuban woman whose name tag said Cynthia walked up to the window and exclaimed, “Oh, look at the lovebirds. You make a perfect couple. This is truly a match designed in the heavens to smile down on our wonderful community of Little Havana.”

Bob looked at Brandy, whose eyes were wide as saucers.

Trying not to pass out, he asked the woman, “Did Miss Garza call you?”

“Yeah, she called and told me you guys were coming and to treat you right because you were a new couple.”

Everything became very bright, which Bob was sure meant he was about to pass out.

“No, no—we’re not a couple.” He looked at Brandy and stammered, “N-not that that would be a bad thing—it’s just that, uh—”

“Don’t worry, Bob.” Brandy laughed. She looked at the vendor and said, “Bob said we couldn’t be a couple because I have six toes on my left foot instead of five.”

Bob and the woman stared blankly at Brandy for a moment, then the vendor broke the silence and asked, “What would you like today?”

“I think we’ll both have a café Cubano,” Brandy said, winking at Bob, who managed a laugh.

Regaining his composure, Bob said, “A shame that the cigar store across the street burned down.” The woman cast a glance at Bob as she prepared the drinks. “I wonder what caused the fire. Do you have any idea?” he asked. He glanced at Brandy.

“Miss Garza also said you’d be asking questions about the store,” the woman said, still working on the drinks. “People get hurt when they stir the hornet’s nest up.”

“Sometimes the hornets won’t go away until they are stirred up,” Bob countered.

Cynthia brought Bob and Brandy their coffees, then took his money and said, “Miss Garza says I can trust you.” She looked deep into Bob’s eyes for a moment. “Every morning the workers would come over to my window before they went to work and grab some drinks. This morning Ricardo came over and got them before I finished their order.”

“Who is Ricardo?” Bob asked.

“Ricardo worked behind the counter,” she said. “He was the manager of the store. He was acting weird, real tense. He’s usually laid back, but this morning he was different, almost rude.” She paused, trying to remember details. “He told them they had to get ready because today was the day. They all seemed to understand and went with him, leaving their drinks here.”