The Manta Club was busy. The late afternoon crowd was filling in. Local bankers, lawyers, and other white-collared folks were coming in for an hour or two of socializing and networking. I wasn't working behind the bar. Really, I wasn't working at all.
Hunter was slinging drinks for the crowd, and I was enjoying a rum and orange juice. Most drinkers fall into a routine. Beer drinkers rarely range far from beer. Hardcore drinkers will swallow anything with alcohol, and price versus punch is usually the deciding factor. Social drinkers stick to the cocktail du jour. Once it was the Cosmo, now it seems the Moscow Mule is the rage. My drink of choice varies, I can appreciate a good whiskey or a nice local beer. Today I felt like something fruity. I do live in South Florida, and fruity drinks are always acceptable.
"You need anything to eat?" Hunter asked as he passed by me.
"I'll wait till the rush is gone," I assured him.
He gave me an appreciative gesture. I took a sip of my drink. Over the rim of the glass, I caught Michael walking into the bar. I hadn't seen Missy since this morning. She wasn't on board Carina when I returned from Miami. She might have gone to her office or even home for a bit. In truth, I didn't give it much thought until just now.
Michael walked over and sat next to me at the bar.
"Chase." His greeting was solemn and sharp.
"Michael." He hadn't started snidely, and I didn't see any reason to fire the first shot.
"About this morning," he started.
Hunter appeared in front of him. "Get you a drink, Michael?" he asked.
"Maker's and Coke," the lawyer said.
Hunter tapped the bar in front of Michael before turning to grab the wax-necked bottle of bourbon.
"Anyway," he continued. "About this morning. I'm sorry for causing a scene."
I acknowledged his apology with a nod. He had more burdens on his shoulders, and he was about to unburden them. I wanted to see what was coming next before I considered giving him the satisfaction of a verbal acceptance.
"I was out of line," he said under his breath as Hunter placed a napkin on the bar in front of Michael, followed by a tall thin glass filled with bourbon and cola.
"Yeah, you were," I reaffirmed to him.
He dropped his head, I waited. He was about to tell me about his problems. I've been around long enough to recognize the signs.
"You probably know as much about our relationship as I do," he said.
Resisting all urges, I refrained from giving any sign of agreement.
"I guess it's a sham," he muttered. "Our marriage, that is."
He took a drink from the paper straw in his glass. He made a face, pulled it out of the drink, and dropped it on the bar.
"I suppose it always was," he continued.
Listening, I took another drink and thought that I was going to need a double next time. The next time would be very soon. I chugged the rest of my glass.
"We are just roommates," he sighed.
Hunter locked eyes with me for a second, and I gave him the subtle signal that I needed another. My hand flashed two fingers, indicating I wanted a double. Without breaking his stride, Hunter nodded and continued to make a gin and tonic.
"What do you want exactly?" I asked Michael.
"I know that you and Missy are," he paused, "close."
Raising my hand, I stopped him. Hunter replaced my glass with another full one that was a much paler orange. I took a gulp before continuing. Hunter had more than doubled the rum. I needed it to get through a conversation with Michael.
"Michael," I started, "let's not get into shit that you don't want to dig up. As I understand it, you aren't exactly the faithful, devoted type. I don't understand the dynamics of your marriage. And honestly, I don't want to. I don't actually like you. You are a smug, entitled asshat. But at some point, Missy didn't think that, so there must be something worthwhile inside you.
"If you want my opinion, Michael, and I doubt you do, this isn't about me and Missy. You feel deflated because whatever girl you were banging up north dumped you or something. I wouldn't suggest you try to wrest control of your relationship from Missy. She doesn't need you, and you should realize that. She isn't going to complete you. Neither is the next young girl you decide to sleep with."
He stared at me. His eyes began to burn. "You think you know everything," he snapped.
"Look," I snarled at him, "you brought this over here. Don't get pissy with me because you suddenly found out what I think about you. If you didn't already know that, then you are an effing moron."
"I know how you feel about me. You are sleeping with my wife!" His voice escalated, and Hunter's head turned toward us.
"Michael, you hold your voice down, or you and I are going outside, even if I have to drag you by the hair." My eyes narrowed, and I added, "I think you know that I'll do it, too."
The rage that flared in his eyes changed to shock, maybe fear.
"Now, I don't care what you think is going on. You have a problem with anything to do with your wife, you go to her. Don't drag me into it."
"You're already in it," he hissed.
My head cocked sideways as I looked at this pathetic man. "Grow a pair," I told him. "I don't answer to you; I don't think Missy answers to you. You want to change something, work on your own damned self. Stop wallowing, and certainly, don't try to muddy the rest of us because you think it will make you feel better."
He downed the Maker's and Coke quickly and pushed the glass away from him. He grunted something at me that I couldn't understand before he walked away from the bar.
When he disappeared through the doors, Hunter walked over and picked up his glass. "Didn't wait for the check again," he said.
"Charge it to his house account. Be sure to throw twenty percent on there."
"Sounded like he bought your drinks too," he quipped.
Smiling, I said, "I doubt he likes me enough."
"Yeah," Hunter said, "he was getting pretty loud for a second there."
We shared a look. His face assured his discretion.
"He's a jackass," Hunter added as he took Michael's glass.
"That's being awfully nice of you."
He laughed as he walked across the bar to another guest.
"Chase," I heard someone say.
My head turned to see Peterson straddle the stool next to me.
"I got a call," he said. "They want it dropped in twenty minutes."
"That's quick."
"Yeah, I had to haul ass over here to see you."
"Where?"
"The bridge over Lake Clarke on I-95. You have to drop it off the bridge on the southbound side."
"Twenty minutes?" I asked again. Luckily, I still had the keys to Missy's BMW. Even with that, the time frame was a tight squeeze. Just getting onto I-95 would take ten minutes.
He nodded. A small package was in his hand. He pushed it toward me. "Can you make it?"
Two grand was a good two months expenses in the Bahamas. My fingers wrapped around the package. "Yeah, I can do it," I promised him.
I dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. Hunter charged my drinks to Michael. "I'll be back, Hunter," I told him as I hurried out of the Manta Club.
The traffic was past the heaviest point, but even at a quarter after six, the movement was slow going. Once I got on the interstate, it was stop and go for the next mile, and that took me nearly ten minutes. The drop was supposed to happen in six minutes. I assumed that no one synchronized watches or anything, but I wasn't sure what the average time was a blackmailer waits for his drop.
The tight timeline would ensure that little could be done to surveil the drop point. Perhaps I was spotted at Dehrer Park. Or maybe, my drug enforcement tail was spotted. My eyes were scanning for anyone following me, but with the number of headlights coming on as the sun faded, it was impossible to determine. The rush to reach the bridge didn't leave me any time to lose a tail, either.
Five minutes.
The lake was off to t
he west. I wasn't familiar with it except to drive past it. There was a channel that connected it to the Atlantic, but I didn't think I could squeeze Carina under the concrete bridges. Besides, I never felt an inclination to try. These types of lakes covered the area fed by the glades and dumped into the ocean somewhere down the trail.
The next exit was past the bridge and the off-ramp was clogged. The taillights in front of me crept forward.
Four minutes.
My fingers tapped on the steering wheel as if they could will the drivers in front of me to move faster. They failed miserably.
The orange sky stretched eastward. From the raised interstate, I could look out toward the black night crawling across the ocean toward land.
The lights ahead started moving a little faster. I pulled over into the break-down lane and raced forward.
Three minutes.
The traffic was moving, and as I crested the bridge, I could see a tow truck moving a car off the interstate, allowing the cars to flow more freely.
Opening the package, I found the envelope for me. I glimpsed inside to count twenty bills. Stuffing that envelope in my shorts, I turned my hazard flashers on and got out of the car. Peering over the bridge, I didn't see anything except water below.
Was I just supposed to drop the package? Twenty grand sinking to the bottom of the canal seemed like a scary endeavor.
It was time. Peterson said to drop it over the side. I looked again. Extending my hand out, I let the package fall from my grip. A second and a half passed before the cardboard box splashed into the water. I could see it floating, bobbing up and down with the waves.
Was I willing to jump in after it?
It's $20,000.
The answer was yes, I would.
My eyes stayed locked on the white box drifting in the water. The nose of a boat came from under the bridge. A white center console fishing boat edged into view. The hardtop bimini blocked my vision. I didn't know the make of the vessel, but it was sporting a 225 horsepower Yamaha motor on the back. The driver reached out from under the awning and scooped the box up with a fishing net. When the net and package were on board, he vanished again under the cover. I could make out that it was a thin white male. Even his height was hard to discern when looking from above. A ball cap with a marlin on it shielded his face from me too.
The motor screamed as he pressed the throttle down. The boat raced away, leaving a trail of waves rolling out of its wake. The boat had a name on the transom, though-King of Hookers. Classy, I thought.
The fishing boat sped down the channel into Lake Clarke. The fading sunlight only reflected in glints off the waves it left behind. In less than a minute, the vessel curved along the bend of the shoreline and disappeared onto the lake.
I stared off after it for a minute or two after it was gone from sight. The drop was smart, and I wondered why he would prominently display the name of his boat. Those center consoles are a dime a dozen around here.
The answer was that the boat wasn't his. He picked a great spot, limited the time to prepare for anything shady, and left himself multiple avenues to get away. Stealing a boat was the smart thing too. Even if I traced the vessel, I would get nothing from it.
For a second, I considered that he was smart enough to deserve the $70,000 he made this week. Still, I knew that if he wasn't found, Peterson would always look over his shoulder. Whatever the man had on him, it was enough to keep the mayor scared and enough for him to shell out a fee to me that would keep me on the boat for the next five years.
I got back into the car and pulled back onto the interstate.
16
Peterson was still at the bar when I returned. The crowd had diminished some, but he had a couple of guys trying to vie for his attention like he had double D's and a sign that said "Available."
He peeked up from his conversation to see me take a seat up at a stool across from him. With no indication that he had any interest in my return, he continued talking to a balding man wearing a $2000 suit that looked like he had just put it on.
Hunter walked by and asked, "You back? Want another drink?"
"Yeah, and can you order me a burger? Medium rare with that smoked brie they have back there."
Hunter moved around the bar. In less than a minute, he dropped a drink off.
"Hey there," Missy sidled up next to me. "I heard Michael was in earlier."
The blood rushed to my cheeks, and I felt the flush of heat in my face.
"I'm so sorry about that," she offered.
"It's fine. He seemed wound up pretty tight."
She shook her head slowly. "That's no excuse. I have to talk to him. I just don't want to."
"Then don't do it yet," I suggested. "Let the bastard stew a bit. Michael needs to find his peace. Maybe you do, too."
She looked at me. "I have an idea of what needs to happen."
"But..."
She shrugged. "I have to work on payroll and approve Chef's new menu."
"Sounds like fun."
"You hear anything from your Marine buddy?"
"No," I answered. "He has gotten in with some bad guys."
Missy cringed. "Think he's okay?"
"I really don't," I said. "Maybe I'm wrong, but my gut tells me he's gone."
Her hand covered mine gingerly. "Oh, Chase, I'm sorry."
My hand turned and squeezed hers. "The kid made his bed, I suppose."
Hunter came around the center of the bar carrying my cheeseburger. Missy released my hand and retracted her arm like a whip. Hunter didn't appear phased by the intimacy we were sharing.
"You know, you can never fire Hunter," I pointed out as I lifted the bun on my burger to check the accuracy of my order.
"Hell," she joked, "I was just going to sleep with him."
I laughed. "I figured you already had."
"Keep it up," she snapped, "and I just might."
She stood up. "I have work to do. Can I crash with you tonight?"
"Want I should invite Hunter too?"
She grinned. "You think it requires both of you?"
When she walked away, I picked up the burger and took a bite. As I chewed, I noticed Peterson's group had dwindled. He excused himself from the two guys still talking. He moved around to me.
"Everything good, Chase?"
"Yeah," I said when I swallowed. "I saw the guy. He was in a fishing boat. Picked it up and jetted off toward the lake."
"You saw him?" Peterson asked excitedly.
"Not enough to identify him," I explained. "The boat, though, was named King of Hookers in case you want to pursue it."
"King of Hookers?"
"Classy, right?"
Peterson said, "Thank you for this, Chase."
I lifted my hands. "Don't thank me. I didn't do anything. I haven't helped you at all."
He gave me a curt nod, and another constituent of his grabbed his arm. With that, the mayor moved back into political mode. I finished my burger and flagged Hunter down for my check.
The night was clear, save a few cumulus clouds churning past the moon. My skin tingled as the breeze from the ocean rushed in. Strands of hair caught the wind and danced around my head. I walked along the sidewalk, where Alvarez had followed me.
My thoughts about Tristan were jumbled. At what point should I tell my concerns to Kayla? Was I jumping the gun here? There was no proof that he was dead. If we were still in the desert, would I be so quick to decide he could be left behind without really knowing?
Laughter rode on the wind from somewhere. I glanced back to see two couples on the Tilly's patio. They were in their 40's. Not locals either, this was a getaway for them.
I turned back to continue my walk. A man stepped in front of me. The Sig Sauer that he was pointing at me was the first thing I noticed. He was Latino. Not Scar or Alvarez and whatever his name was. He wasn't as big as Scar or Alvarez, and if he wasn't holding a gun on me, I felt that I could take him in a fight. However, at this point, there was no opening for me
.
I lifted my hands to about my mid-torso. There's the semblance of surrender while freeing my hands up to react if the opportunity presented itself. I was willing to lift them all the way if he insisted, but I had a feeling that he would accept it as surrender. Most people's egos make them think they are superior than they are. Add in a weapon, and they become cocky.
"Vamos," he ordered.
My high school Spanish still needed brushing up, but I was pretty sure it meant "Go." Plus, he waved his gun toward the road.
He stayed about six feet behind me, just far enough that I couldn't disarm him before he shot me-smart of him.
A black Hummer was parked on the street.
"Entra."
I turned and looked at him questioningly.
"Entra," he repeated.
"No habla," I explained.
The rear door opened. Light spilled out onto the asphalt from inside.
"Why don't you join me, Mister Gordon?" The voice was heavily accented, and the word "Mister" was enunciated with care and precision.
With a gun in my back, I accepted the invitation. Julio Moreno was seated in the back seat with Scar. I climbed in and sat on the seat, facing Moreno. The interior of the Hummer was not stock. Two leather benches faced each other. LED strips along the ceiling cast a pale, bright light. The new guy sat next to m,e facing forward.
"Mister Gordon," Moreno started, "how was your sandwich?"
"Very good. I don't suppose you brought me any of that...whatever it was?"
"Boliche," he said. "No, I thought we could have a talk."
"Well, talk," I replied.
Moreno's eyes narrowed. He studied me carefully. "I assume that since you are on good terms with the Drug Enforcement Agency, you know who I am."
"Good terms might be an exaggeration," I said. "But, yes, I know who you are."
Moreno looked at Scar and said, "Buscalo."
Scar ripped my shirt open and began to pat me down.
"Nada," he said to Moreno.
"That was great," I quipped. "Next time, why don't you buy me dinner before feeling me up?"
"Where is Tristan Locke?" Moreno demanded.
"Ah," I said, dragging the one syllable out. "I do not know that."
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