“Fer chrissakes.”
“You need Him, Jack, and you need us about now, too.”
“I’ve known the Isaak brothers for years. I can’t believe they’d be into that shit.”
“They don’t have to be. We don’t know for sure that they are, but we aim to find out. There’s always a loose link in the chain and we’re going to find it, and we’re going to test it. Maybe those boys know more than they’re letting on. You need to nose around, and if you find anything out, you need to hand over the info.”
Miles had been leaning on the table. He sat back casually, put his arms behind his head. He wore beat-up combat boots and a plaid western shirt with metal-rimmed buttons. His red beard was getting scraggly. He smoothed it, pulled a phone out of his breast pocket, and checked it. “They’re calling about you. HQ. They want you to get on it, Jack. You and me.”
“That’s just great.” His voice croaked. He’d opened a window and his whole life had flown out of it. What the hell was he going to do now? Cooperate, that’s what. It was like taking a gut-wrenching gallon of medicine. He had to swallow it down and get rid of the disease. “I’ll do whatever. I want Blanche to be safe. And I want out of this mess.” He looked Miles directly in the eye. They had a deal.
“Thought you’d say that. You’re smart. They’ve been using you. You need to get ‘em. We need to get ‘em.”
“What’s the deal with Langstrom? Do you have any idea why he turned up in the bay?”
“Allegedly, Langstrom knew too much. He screwed up the kidnapping, and he was working on screwing up the land development scheme. They wanted him gone, just like they want Blanche gone. That’s why we’ve had someone over at that hospital. They don’t care enough about you, Jack. Not yet. Let’s keep it that way.”
Jack wasn’t confused anymore. Now he was pissed. He’d been used, and he was going to use whatever means to clean it up, protect Blanche, and get their lives back. He still couldn’t figure how everything could go to hell so fast. But it did.
Forty —
High Time at the High Tide
The High Tide Bar & Grill was aptly named. Whatever the tide—in or out—a person could get very high at the High Tide any time. The locale was perfect. The restaurant-bar sat kitty-corner on a spit of sand and crushed shell off the narrow causeway on the main road between Santa Maria and the mainland. It had the grand view of Tampa Bay, convenience to all patrons, and a Jimmy-Buffet ambiance. A true Margaritaville if there ever was one.
The bar served a different two-for-the-price-of-one special every night from five to seven: margaritas, piña coladas, Irish whiskey, Bloody Mary’s, screwdrivers, micheladas, all of it with generous shots of booze. The drunken snowbirds sat on the second-level deck of the restaurant and watched the sunset. If one guessed the exact time the sun went down, he or she got a free bottle of champagne to wash down the shrimp and snapper.
A lot of action went down with the drinks, seafood, and other goods.
If the patron didn’t feel like drinking, there were other options to go along with the fish and chips and the breaded popcorn shrimp. Staff and patrons could pick their substance of choice: Tony Phelps, who was the entrepreneur, might offer a customer a trip to the kitchen where various stashes of cocaine, marijuana, and pills were available for purchase. The owner was happy to oblige, but, as they all knew, they had to be very careful. Word of mouth helped the business grow, but if Tony was double-crossed, there was hell to pay, and if rumors were true, hell had been paid off with the souls of several big mouths.
The older crowd was more or less a cover at the restaurant. They came and went, heavy and sunburned, gregarious and well-dressed, leaving large tips. The younger crowd, mostly regulars and a few visitors, were really the source of banner sales. They knew Tony, or someone who knew Tony, and they got into the back room for more than helpings of fish.
And this is where Miles and his DEA crew got into the act on the Florida end; the Chicago site was another project altogether.
At the Tide, while the boats mostly dropped off the shrimp and grouper, the seaplanes dropped off the drugs to other boats, and they moved fast. No one saw them in the dead of night. They swooped down to the bay some distance from the High Tide, sometimes dumping the parcels heavily wrapped in layers of plastic or meeting a boat, and then they swooped up into the air. Had a heavily boozed-up patron of the bar been watching, he or she would have thought a large pelican had flown in and out, the metal bird was so swift.
Jack’s trucking company was a boon to the business. Unwittingly, he was a party to the continuing delivery of drugs between north and south. The Santa Maria location was hot. The development plan for the island and the drug action at High Tide were pieces of a puzzle, and it was no coincidence that the plan had settled near the High Tide. When the money started to flow from drug sales, the bulk of it had to go somewhere. Building a mall and a string of fancy condominiums and McMansions was a good place to launder it. Quaint little Santa Maria Island, populated with simple Florida folk, seemed like the perfect location to Sal Brecksall. Now he’d hit a bump with that damn reporter and the rest of them stirring up questions and trouble.
Miles and his DEA cronies had tracked commerce to the Santa Maria area, and they were set to go in. They’d known about the High Tide for a couple of years, but they’d never had enough. The Conchita Beach business was fairly new, and an indication of the expanding market. They had to do the ground work—the research, the questions, and they got to know the territory and the locals. It had taken many months to pinpoint the larger drops—and for Miles to get to be best buds with Tony Phelps.
Miles was not under any illusion. Too many people wanted drugs, hence, the demand brought suppliers. He was furious more wasn’t done on that end—to end the need and desire for nose candy for wealthy playboys, and girls. He and the DEA were not going to end sales, not with so many stupid people out there. But he did mean to staunch the flow of this operation from Florida to Texas to Chicago. It was a big bite out of their ass. He would take it. If he could…
Soon after the meeting at Dunc’s, Miles and Jack sat on bar stools at the High Tide, the cloying scent of piña colada and stale beer in the air, the bar top sticky. Smoke from the deck wafted in on the soft breeze, the bay between the island and the mainland stretched blue and calm under a mellow rose sky. They chased their whiskey with Heinekens.
They were careful not to get bombed; however, their intention was to give the appearance that they were two drunken yokels. Each had taken a trip to the deck to have a smoke, and to dump some of the booze in the lapping tide under the deck.
They ordered more of the two-fers. About an hour into their drinking, Jack’s voice rose over the blender, the ice cubes, and the clink of beer bottles. “I told you that quarterback doesn’t know his ass. Why they didn’t put him last game is beyond stupid.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Miles wobbled. It was a convincing performance.
“Another NFL screw-up. Great. I suppose you think he has what it takes.” Jack was yelling now, adding a sour note to the argument.
“Last call, gentlemen.” Jim, the bartender, plunked the black pleather folder down between them. “Cash or credit. We take both.”
“Huh? It’s not even seven.”
“You’ve had enough. Can’t serve past your limit. My call. Sorry.”
Miles dropped his head to his chest feigning bobble-headed drunkenness. Jack gave it a fine tune. He pretended to almost fall off the bar stool.
Tony came over. “Hey, man, how’s it going?”
“Dunno.” He was a plausible drunk, careful to keep it to wobbling and not looking Tony in the eye. He hadn’t had quite enough alcohol to create a genuine, bleary look. He put on his sunglasses.
“Maybe you and Jack ought to knock it off for a while. Take a walk on the beach and come back later. Maybe even tomorrow. We’re going to have a live band, Mercenary Blues Band. They’re excellent, man. You’
d love it, but not in the condition you’re in.”
“Excellent, excellent. Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. See y’all later,” said Jack.
With that, the two of them slid off their stools. Miles left a hundred-dollar bill and managed to give Tony a sloppy high five.
Miles stumbled out the door. “Dude, he didn’t even ask if we were driving.” Jack was moving at a sober clip.
Tony was leaning on the bar, signaling Jim. “How much they drink?”
“At least five or six shots a piece. I finally cut them off.”
“What numb nuts.”
Miles couldn’t know it, but it was exactly the reaction he wanted. He looked over the roof of the car at Jack. “Act One, and done. Hope he bought it. We’re just a couple of dumb drunks.” The two hustled off to see the chief.
I
Salvador Brecksall was the master of keeping a low profile. He’d acquired a slew of businesses for his Chicago operation, including trucking, real estate, medical devices, furniture imports. The business of drug running sort of fell into his lap when a friend needed packets of cocaine delivered to Chicago in gold-embossed leather hassocks through Turkey.
“Your distributors will love it,” said the entrepreneurial exporter from Istanbul. He and Sal had met over Adana kebabs and belly dancing in Chicago, and Sal had not looked back. He bought in, but now he wanted to bow out. He needed to finish the lucrative run. He had his eye on a nice little stretch of beach front on Santa Maria, and although it looked like there had been a snag in the land development plans—that preening idiot Langstrom had not worked out—Sal was sure he could “persuade” the residents of Tuna Street to move out of the way and give a hard-working Chicago retiree his due. But first things first.
It was a warm October in the Chicago suburb of Bolingbrook, the gold and red leaves still attached to their black skeletons in the park, the musty smell of autumn hovering. Brecksall found Placer easily. The lanky fellow uncrossed his legs and stood. He dragged on his cigarette while he watched Brecksall lope toward him.
“Why we meet here,” Placer said.
“What? You want the cocktail lounge at the Four Seasons? We got trouble, and I don’t want no ears, technological or otherwise.”
“You don’t say. That business with Langstrom? That development plan hit ‘em down there like a bomb. A big stink bomb.”
“You know we need to wash that coin. The land development was supposed to do it. I’m running out of dumps,” said Brecksall. “Langstrom was supposed to be the face of The All New and Improved Money-Laundering Plan of Santa Maria.” A fallen away Catholic, he made the sign of the cross nonetheless.
“Again. Just curious. Why’d you want him gone?”
“Too many demands. Annoying twerp. And he wanted a boatload for his lame services. Good work getting rid of him.”
Placer lit another cigarette. He was wary of compliments, and of Brecksall. He’d learned not to trust anyone. Didn’t hurt to get as much info as possible, then take the money and run. “It weren’t easy. I had to take him out fast. Hate that squealing like a baby when they sees the gun. All of a sudden not such a tough guy anymore.” Placer sat, crossed his legs, swung a boot back and forth. “Then I gets this oil drum, and he didn’t quite fit…”
“Save it. It’s done. That particular laundromat is on hold.” Brecksall felt like he needed a shower. The park bench was warm from the sun, but he was near the boiling point. He just wanted to finish the operation and retire like that lousy ex-partner of his, Harry Lam, who slithered off the Florida and bought himself a gold Cadillac. He’d skimmed enough off the drug running, gotten away clean, and he didn’t want to know more. Now he tootled over to the links every day on his golf cart and left the snow and the Chicago business behind. “Sal, you really ought to give it up,” Harry had told his partner. “Think of your health.”
Salvador wasn’t thinking of his health at the moment. He was thinking about how he could get the last million out of the load from Afghanistan that finally was making its way up highway 65 in the back of Jack Murninghan’s string of eighteen-wheelers. He wanted to be there in the warehouse to greet them when it all came in and was delivered to the hundred or so furniture stores. Fast. It seemed to take forever to get the shipments through and finally collect on the sales of the drugs. He had always been a patient man, but his patience was wearing as thin as the remaining strands upon his nearly bald head.
This nice pile of money would be his last gig. He’d done enough “laundry.” Now, all he could think of was Tuna Street. The realtor said the owners didn’t want to sell, but in Sal’s world, everyone had a price. He’d keep at it until one or two of them sold. Maybe with a little pressure.
He’d already put the pressure on that girl, the journalist, and look how that worked out. It didn’t.
“You made a mess with that girl. I wanted to be rid of her.”
“Yeah, well, you can blame Langstrom and those goons you had down there. But it was all Sergi. What a prima donna. Told me to dump her, not kill her. Shouldn’t have listened because now she’s out there, and she may be able to ID me. I could still go after her.”
“No. And have that police chief and all the rest of ‘em after us? Too hot right now. Let’s just get this done and get out. You have your orders. You need to be on Santa Maria for that drop. Going to be huge, and final.”
“Final. Don’t like that word. But I get you. We’ll make it work, then I’m gone. Aruba or Seychelles. Abracadabra. Somewhere way the hell away.”
“I’m going to meet you at the High Tide. You’ll get the particulars later.”
“When will I get paid?”
“Pronto.”
Brecksall was relieved to hear that the hit man would be gone, out of his life. Fortunately, Placer never left a trace, even when he killed that realtor in broad daylight. Broke his neck. He’d do anything Brecksall asked, and do it quickly and clean. It made Brecksall queasy to know Placer would still be out there after the drop. But it couldn’t happen any other way. He needed Placer for certain tasks, not the least of which was gathering up a pile of non-traceable cellphones. Placer was the go-between in this and in other things. He was slick, in and out with messages about incoming shipments, and very efficient at doing the leg work for deposits to the Cayman and Swiss accounts.
They were almost done. He didn’t want to look over his shoulder. Sal didn’t believe it, but he felt it—Placer could off him in a heartbeat—and it made him very antsy.
Sal climbed into his old Jaguar and sank back in the cracked leather seat. It comforted him, but only for a minute. He straightened his bow tie, looked in the rearview mirror and sighed. He raked a strand of greasy white hair off his forehead and started the car. He thought of the drop, and all that could go wrong. The Feds were poking around, but he and Lam had successfully unloaded the trucking division on Jack Murninghan. He could take the fall for that one. Brecksall had his overseas accounts and the balance was nice and fat. The spotlight was on Jack Murninghan, so while the light shined there, Brecksall planned to sneak off.
I
Hank Miles was good at coordinating details, but he couldn’t be in two places at once. He’d studied military history, and he knew the value of the element of surprise. It made up mightily for the occasional screw-up. But there couldn’t be any screw-ups here. The plan was to have the bust go off at the High Tide and in the warehouse of Brecksall and Lam in Chicago all at once.
Miles had been in on this type of operation before, but this one was his baby. He was ready.
Forty-One
The Girls Get Ready
Blanche was well-rested even though the hospital made her restless. Lingering in a hospital bed was not something she was used to, and she hoped she never had to do it again. Time had been lost in the investigation, and in the end, this side trip had done nothing but excite her curiosity and goad her to get to the bottom of the murder and this business with Langstrom and Jack’s entanglement in the drug drop.
She wanted out of the ‘pital, as Jack called it, and she wanted to get on with it.
Haasi stood next to the bed. “The man. The hairball, you say. He is gone.”
“Gone?” For a second Blanche entertained the notion that Langstrom and his development plan had vanished into the North. But Haasi’s face told her otherwise.
“Very much. He is dead.”
Blanche fell back on her pillow, the color drained from her face. She didn’t like this news. For a number of reasons. She didn’t wish this on Langstrom, and she was loath to think about yet another murder in connection with Santa Maria.
“How?”
“Not pleasant, but what is good about any of this? He met his end. He wanted you to be gone, Blanche. I am sorry for the death of another human being, but what he did to you was not human.”
“He put me in here?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Yes, you can say it. I overheard him on the phone with the hairballs.”
“Haasi, I’ve got to get out of here.”
“This will happen.”
The unmistakable click of Liza Kramer’s heels echoed down the corridor. Blanche could hear her laugh. It seemed the afternoon sunlight got a bit brighter, the lilies in Blanche’s bedside vase sat up. Liza whooshed through the doorway, her rose fragrance and blond curls and enormous bouquet of spring flowers in blue and orange tissue seemed to fill the room. Right behind her came a slender woman in a snug Chinese sheath printed with round white flowers on a red background, her hair a stylish short cap. She was carrying a small black bag.
Blanche opened her arms for a hug. Haasi smiled.
“Liza!” Blanche looked to Liza’s companion and the black bag.
“Blanche, this is QiPi! I’m telling you, she is a savior.”
QiPi bowed. “You are too kind.”
“Qi, you helped me stop smoking, lose five pounds, and calmed me down some since Bob…,” said Liza. Her hands flew to her cheeks, glowing with health and happiness. “Acupuncture, Blanche! It’s wonderful!”
Saving Tuna Street Page 21
