Authors: Steven Becker
“Let’s sleep on it and talk tomorrow. We’ve got fish to clean.”
***
Cesar pulled the cigarette boat up to the seawall. In neutral, the boat stopped in place at the dock, held in place by the wind. He tied off, grabbed his cell phone, and headed for his truck.
The heat from the truck hit him as he opened the door. He reached in, turned on the ignition and opened all the windows to let the air blast for a few minutes waiting for the super-heated interior to cool before he got in. The truck cooled quickly, and he got in, dreading the call he needed to make. The truck was cool now, but sweat continued to drip from his brow. He picked up his phone and noticed there was a text from Diego, received over an hour ago; no content, just a signal to call back. It could only mean one thing, and Cesar was terrified of the repercussions.
He drove the two miles to his house in a panic, wondering how to explain this to Diego. He pulled in the driveway, got out and let himself into his house. In the hallway, he pulled down the attic access ladder and climbed several rungs until he could reach his hand under the insulation. The baggie was there, just where he’d left it. Inside was another cell phone — a burner, prepaid and untraceable. He went to the recent calls screen and pushed Diego’s number.
Three rings, four rings … he waited patiently, hoping for voice mail when the sound changed. His hopes were dashed when the line suddenly connected.
“Yeah. You got it,
mi hermano
?”
Cesar took a deep breath. Now came the part he’d been dreading. “We got a problem. I got four of them. The fifth wasn’t there. I can’t pick up a signal from the beacon, either. I’ve been out all day looking, but there’s so many fishing boats I can’t search without looking suspicious.”
There was a long, toxic pause on the other end, and Cesar closed his eyes. Diego was one of the most powerful men in Mexico, and Cesar had spent most of his life fearing the drug lord. It had been chance that led him to this position as runner, and there were times when he wished he’d become a sugar cane farmer instead.
Now was one of those moments.
“Was it the special package?” his boss asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
This was the question Cesar had feared most. “Yes,
patron
.”
He could almost see the scene on the other end of the phone. Diego was infamous for his temper and what he did with it. Scarface had nothing on the trail of bodies tied to him. If he wanted, he could end Cesar life - and every member of his family’s.
When he spoke again, he emphasized each word. “Find it, Cesar. Or you and all you hold dear will die.” He paused, “I don’t think I need to tell you how.”
“Yes,
patron
,” Cesar mumbled.
The call disconnected and Cesar put the phone down, his hand shaking. No, Diego didn’t need to tell him how he would die. He’d seen it before, when men had failed the drug lord. Their screams still haunted his dreams.
He replaced the phone, went to the refrigerator and put his hand toward a cold beer. Changing his mind, he quickly moved it to a bottle of water. Alcohol was no cure for the disease he now carried.
Chapter 3
Pete wanted nothing more than his bed, but the party at the house was in high gear for Dan, Jeff, and the girls. Music was loud and hips were grinding while he looked on, planning his exit strategy. The only single one of the group, he didn’t often feel like a fifth wheel. Except when they were partying.
He rubbed the callus on the base of his ring finger. Regret about his situation didn’t visit often, but when it did, the melancholy was unbearable. Divorced for three years, he was lonelier than he would admit to himself. He watched the couples interact with each other and saw through the effects of the drugs and alcohol. He saw the connections. Realizing there was no rest to be had here, he decided on a change of scenery.
Unnoticed, he slid from the room and out the front door. He looked at the car, but chose the bicycle instead. Although nowhere near the level of intoxication of his friends, he’d had a few, and didn’t want to risk it. A DUI would totally screw his custody situation.
He pedaled out of the driveway, wobbly at first, but quickly gaining confidence. Maybe he’d had more to drink than he thought. He rode through the neighborhood and turned left at Sombrero Golf Course, heading towards the Dockside bar. He glanced at the boats moored at the seawall, most dark and empty, wondering if he might have to crash on one. The bar was half full when he entered; a solo guitar player strumming Jimmy Buffet covers was the only one who looked at him - showing him where the tip jar was with a nod. He sat down at the bar, as far away from the crowd as he could get and ordered a beer. The barmaid set the cold bottle in front of him. He lifted it, took a sip and sat back as he reflected on the days events and wondered how he could stop his out of control friends from getting them all killed. He could sneak back and dump the drugs in the canal while they were all partying, but he feared Dan’s reaction - especially if he was still high when he found out.
The bar was filling up, nine o’clock Saturday night and things were getting into gear. He felt alone, sitting by himself, nursing a beer. A rotund tourist and his equally rotund wife vacated the seats next to him. Hoping they would be filled by someone he could talk to, he slowly sipped his beer.
The teeth were the first thing he saw. Way too large for the face that presented them, whiter than any middle-aged man’s teeth should be. Even the tall frame and long hair couldn’t disguise the size of the grill in his mouth. Fifty-seven Chevy came to mind as the man pulled out the stool and sat down.
The barmaid pecked the man’s cheek over the bar and placed a cold beer in front of him without asking.
Not only a guy, but a local,
Pete thought. Great. He took a big sip of his beer, thinking about escaping from here too. Then he took another gulp and coughed, beer spewing from his mouth.
“Easy there, partner.” The big guy signaled the barmaid for a glass of water. “You ok, there? No need to be rushing things.”
Pete collected himself, blood rushing to his face in embarrassment. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks.”
“No problem. Name’s Alan, but most call me Tru, short for Trufante.”
“Pete.” He extended his hand.
“No worries, man. Let’s get you another beer and settle ya down. He picked up the bottle, “More backwash in that than beer.” Trufante called down the bar, and a fresh, cold beer arrived a moment later.
They sat quietly for a few minutes, each enjoying his space. Pete was grateful for the silence, not really wanting to get in a discussion with a local. Locals and tourists didn’t often mix well. He watched as Trufante smiled again as the door opened and an attractive brunette dressed in scrubs walked in. With a sigh he turned away as the woman approached, clearly making for Trufante.
Trufante got up and placed her between his stool and Pete’s. They kissed rabidly, then turned to Pete.
“Sue, this is Pete. He’s down here looking a little out of sorts.”
“Hey, good to meet you. You down here by yourself?” she asked, looking Pete up and down.
“Fishing with a couple of buddies who brought their wives. Started feeling like a fifth wheel, so I came down here.” He mumbled.
“Hey, what about we set him up with Joanie?” Sue said, turning to Trufante. “She’s feeling a little down. Maybe head down to Key West.”
“Sweet.” The smile lit up his face again as Pete wondered what he had walked into.
“Maybe I ought to just head home.”
“No way dude,” Sue said. We’re gonna fix you up and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
***
An hour later, Pete was in love. The backseat of Sue’s Camry was just small enough to initiate body contact every time she hit a pothole. And Joanie giggled every time they touched. Pete thought it a nervous thing, but kind of cute anyway. The rest of her was cute to match. Petite, with red hair and some scattered freckles, even on the top of her cleavage, which was displayed by her low-cut top. He was entranced, as they jiggled with every bump. She didn't talk much, though, just giggled and jiggled.
Sue found a parking spot a few blocks off Duval Street, and they headed toward the noise of Saturday night, Trufante and Sue several steps ahead. Pete felt Joanie intertwine her fingers with his. His hand almost moved away as his heart jumped at the touch. But he smiled and relaxed.
They settled into a rhythm of drinking and dancing and, at some point, he realized that Trufante had disappeared. Pete didn’t notice until he found himself dancing with two women. It was the stuff of dreams; he looked around for Trufante’s six foot plus frame and smile. He didn’t see him anywhere. Sue and Joanie sandwiched him and started grinding, and soon all else was forgotten.
They were back at the bar, Pete ordering drinks for the girls and one for himself that he probably didn’t need when Trufante strutted back in, grin a little wider, if that was possible. Pete saw him hand something to Sue as he hugged her. Seconds later, the girls made a bee line toward the lady’s room.
“Got some stuff if you want to keep partying.” Trufante leaned into him so he could here over the music.
“No, that’s ok, thanks. I really like that girl, though. Can’t thank you guys enough.”
“No worries.” Trufante slapped Pete’s back.
Something was pinging in his head, though. Trufante seemed to be well known and connected here. He obviously knew where to score, and seemed pretty nonchalant about it.
Table of Contents