“Liza, you are the best friend anyone could ask for.”
Dr. Haplewski walked in and took one look at Liza, QiPi, and the array of needles spread out on a linen cloth next to Blanche’s bed. “What the …”
“They’re just visiting, doctor, and then they’ll be going.” Blanche sat up straight and smoothed the bed cover.
“No, we’re not, not until you try this Blanche,” said Liza. “Hello, Doctor.” She batted her lashes and twisted a long gold chain from which dangled a tiny turquoise globe. QiPi remained calm and silent, hands folded, the picture of serenity.
“Hello, and good-bye, if you please,” said the doctor. “You may not bring this in here.”
“Why not? Acupuncture’s been around for thousands of years, and it certainly can’t hurt, you know, with anxiety and insomnia.” Liza coaxed.
“And it can’t help. Now, please, pack these things up.” He spun on his heel and then gave Liza the laser eye. “Promise?” But he smiled. The poor man couldn’t help it.
Blanche hunched her shoulders. Haasi said, “Maybe another time?”
“Oh, all right,” said Liza. “But I’ve got to help. We need you, Blanche.” She beseeched Haasi.
“Do not worry, Liza,” said Haasi. “Thank you, Qi.” She gave the slightest bow, so imperceptible Blanche did not catch it.
I
Blanche was about to leave the hospital, but only Haasi, Liza, and Blanche knew it. An escape, of sorts.
They were on a mission.
But first, Haasi and Liza paid Cappy a visit. The two women swept into his kitchen where Liza eyed the simmering bouillabaisse and then got down to business. “Cap, we need to get into Blanche’s closet and bring her some things.”
“Why? She’s not leaving the hospital for several days,” he said.
“Blanche wants to be ready when she leaves,” said Haasi. “The doctor says she may leave soon, and she needs clothes. What she was wearing in the night time they found her is not suitable.” It was a white lie, her first ever, and it pained her. Her intention was hidden; her words were the truth.
He motioned for them to follow to Blanche’s room.
Liza chimed in. “You know, she’s lost weight, but she’s up and about walking. She wants to be properly dressed.” She began throwing cosmetics into a bag though Blanche had few. Liza planned to add to the stash. They needed all the tools.
Cappy shrugged, and smiled. “Well, have at it. Completely foreign to me, but, I have to say, it’s wonderful you are all like sisters to Blanche.” Liza couldn’t resist a quick hug, and then she got on with it. She handed Haasi a silk blouse and some creams.
Blanche was not a trendy dresser, but she had a basic assortment of things that tended to the colors of the sunset and island flowers. Haasi rummaged through the clothing. She and Blanche were the same size, and they were a striking pair. They were about to make the most of it.
Haasi headed back to the hospital with the clothes and make-up. It was a short bus ride off the island. She usually got a lift when she went to visit Blanche, but today, she didn’t want any questions, especially about the bag of goodies she was sneaking into the hospital.
It was late afternoon by the time she arrived. Blanche was lying in bed, wide awake, watching the door. Haasi had studied the shift changes to the minute, and they had timed Blanche’s escape for the precise interval when the nurses and other staff were running around, gossiping, updating each other and getting settled. Certain ones of them were more inclined to fritter, and Haasi had made a note of it. If someone wanted to die in the hospital, this was a good time to do it. No one would be poking around, bringing meds, and generally disturbing those who wanted to rest in peace.
Haasi was a familiar figure in the ward, and she wasn’t stopped on her way to Blanche’s room. On more than one occasion, Haasi had visited Blanche when she wasn’t supposed to be there, and she had always gotten around the posted security. It was amazing the places a tiny unassuming person could go; she was an underestimated presence, and for that, she and Blanche were forever grateful, and lucky.
She appeared next to Blanche. She was wearing a shift and lifting water bottles like barbells. She’d been forcing herself to eat more, exercise, and nap. She was ready. Enough with “one more test.”
Haasi smiled. “Bring them on.”
“Hey. You mean, bring it on?”
“No, I mean them. All of them.”
Blanche dropped her arms and took the bag from Haasi. “Whatcha got?”
“All the colors I could find.”
“Good. We need them. Been pretty dull lately.”
Liza slipped into the room. She usually entered like she was leading a parade, but not today. She wore flats and a plain skirt and blouse. She put one finger to her lips, opened her purse, and withdrew several tubes and brushes. “Glamor time!”
“Oh yeah,” said all three.
I
Haasi and Blanche were sitting on bar stools at the High Tide when Miles and Jack walked in the door. At first they didn’t see the women, then Jack stopped. If he’d known Liza was planning to show up later, the scene would have been complete, and he would have exploded for sure. “What the…”
Miles said, “What’s wrong? You look surprised. Or something worse.”
“Something worse.”
Miles followed Jack through the bar, and his eye landed on Blanche. She glowed, either because she was so sick of being sick, or the make-up session worked that well. It was probably a little of both. Miles had never met Blanche before, but, of course, he knew all about her. He’d read her notes. Jack had filled him in.
Jack walked over to his cousin, hugged her first, but then lit in: “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in the hospital!”
“Well, I’m not.”
“I can see that. Hank, this is my cousin, Blanche, and you know Haasi.” Jack gave Haasi a hug, and Miles didn’t take his eyes off Blanche’s black curls and that grin. He ignored Jack who went right back to harassing Blanche for being an escapee. “I’ll just bet the two of you are up to something.”
Hank Miles nodded. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He took a step back behind Jack, the sweat beading down his spine. He studied the top of Blanche’s head, and tried to think of something intelligent to say. There was something about that girl. He felt an arrow to the heart. But Blanche was busy haranguing Jack.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Blanche. “It’s perfectly legal for me to sit on this bar stool.” She waved half a piña colada at him, and she was having a hard time covering up the fact that she found Hank Miles wildly attractive; the chemistry was evident. She wasn’t shy or coquettish; it wasn’t her way. She studied Hank’s crooked grin and the hair that stood straight up like Irish wire, and his restless energy that she understood at once. Haasi poked her in the ribs. And then Jack started in again.
“You’re supposed to be recuperating! In the hospital!”
“That has been done.” Haasi leaned closer to Blanche and sat up straight, adjusting herself on the bar stool like it was her regular perch. It was the first time she’d ever sat on a bar stool. But it hardly seemed to matter. She seemed to be adapting, and she certainly looked the part. Her eyes were done up like Cleopatra’s, heavily lined, accenting the winged shape. Liza’s superb touch. Jack had seen Haasi many times since the kidnapping, but she had never been dressed in anything other than her usual island dress, which wasn’t much. Tonight she wore an electric blue silk blouse and tight black pants. She crossed her legs and dangled one sandal up and down. She looked perfectly at home, and she was sipping a brown liquid in a very small glass.
This was the last place on earth Jack imagined he would ever find both of them.
Miles had one arm on the bar and was making an effort to be casual while he continued to stare at Blanche. She’d chosen to deck herself out in a tight red and yellow striped jersey sheath, which highlighted the contrast of her pale skin and
dark hair. She appeared to be fully recovered from her ordeal. Though not happy to see her at the High Tide, Jack was awfully happy to see her looking so well while he wanted to grab her under his arm and whisk her out of there.
“Again, Bang. You’re not answering. What are you doing here?”
“I’m recovering.”
“What are you talking about?”
Haasi and Blanche looked at each other. They had an unspoken communication that was eerie. Jack recognized the ability: he and Blanche had always had the same connection.
Miles pushed off the bar. “Wait a minute.”
“No, I don’t think so. Too late for that. We know what’s going on. Well, we know some of what’s going on, and you are going to need all the help you can get.” Haasi spoke calmly, and there was no dissuading her. She had been there—talking with Chief Duncan and Cappy, listening in at windows and conversations, asking unassuming questions—whatever it took. She knew most everyone on the island since her part in Blanche’s rescue, and she’d become something of a celebrity though she shunned any credit for her participation. Clint wanted to interview her for the Island Times, but she declined. “We will have the interviews and stories later, and thank you,” she’d told him when he finally tracked her down at Duncan’s.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Hank Miles and Jack and the authorities were planning something. They’d questioned Haasi, and she’d put it together and gotten back to Blanche. Haasi had lurked, and listened plenty. They knew about the drops at High Tide, and they were determined to pull all the loose ends together.
The weird thing was that most people who lived around Santa Maria knew about the drug sales, too, but there was never any way to stop it. Chief Duncan had tried to coordinate with other law enforcement, but the drug business continued, unabated. The right mix of law enforcement and follow-up had been missing. Until now.
Haasi and Blanche had come to want something more. They wanted revenge. These people were bent on destroying the island—and someone had killed Bob. Then the kidnapping. Blanche told Haasi the hairballs had threatened Cappy during the kidnapping. And this was the last thing that they would take from them. They would not touch a fine hair on Cappy’s head.
The urge to make things right did not diminish; it simply burned brighter.
Blanche knew Dominique Placer was out there. The man conducted a hard, cold business. It needed to end. They would meet again, and they were planning accordingly. Placer was slick, but he had never met up with anyone like Haasi and Blanche.
Jack’s eyes shot from Blanche to Haasi. He was frantic. “Blanche, you can’t be here,” he said. Miles had the same look of firm dismissal—mixed with concern and wonder—on his face.
“Well, we are here. And I’m thinking of ordering a hamburger. Would you like one?”
“No, I wouldn’t, and neither would you. How’d you get over here? Do you want a ride to Cap’s?”
“No, I said. We are going to have a nice time tonight, and I suggest you take care of yourself. You look stressed, Jack. Go about your business.” With that, she turned to Haasi and they clinked glasses.
The bickering stopped abruptly when Tony Phelps walked in. He wore a bomber jacket and from the bulge under his arm, Jack knew he was carrying. Tony walked to the back room. Blanche took in the cold expression. Jack and Miles feigned interest in a ball game that was projected over the bar.
“A little warm for the jacket,” Haasi murmured.
The night was going to be a hot one.
Forty-Two —
Garbage Fish
Salvador Brecksall did not want to be here for his last drop near the island, but it was a necessity. He might as well enjoy it. He drove his rented Mustang convertible over the bay bridge and marveled at the blend of sky and water. It was a diamond for the eye, a sparkling show of Mother Nature. He couldn’t wait to get on with retirement and settle down here.
He still had his sights set on Tuna Street. And he was ready to pay whatever price to get a spot on the island. He had a tidy fortune. He’d been all about the money, and he hadn’t cared much about how he got it. The drugs he flooded the streets with killed and ruined thousands, upon thousands, of people. But Sal was philosophical about his business dealings. “It’s the people’s choice. It’s a free country.” Surprisingly, he was all for legalization of marijuana because he assumed it would lead to more customers getting hooked on drugs. The leafy greens were his bread and butter, along with that sugar cocaine and heroin to top it all. What a feast. “People are so willing to go the banquet,” he often said.
He’d argued with his former partner, Harry Lam: “Get the stuff legal. I pay Uncle Sam some tax. So what? He’s happy, and I’m happy.” He didn’t consider the machinations of paying taxes and possibly having the IRS audit his books. It was moot now. He wanted out of the trade altogether. Harry had the right idea when he’d told Sal to take care of his health, and as a result, Sal surmised he would stop contributing to ruining the health of the others.
Besides, it was getting too risky.
Sal pulled into the Blue Dolphin motel in Bradenton Beach and checked in. He whistled while he walked. He would do this last run. Time was money, and a little side trip to Florida was nice, especially with the bad weather already up in Chicago. He eyed the small pool with rattan lounges and a Tiki bar where a gorgeous bikini-clad non-swimmer was sipping something fluorescent pink. “Ah, we don’t have that in Bolingbrook. Not even close.”
Sal ate grouper fingers at the Gulf Cafe, took a nap, and planned to head over to the High Tide. He wanted to get this show on the road. He had other things to do besides sitting in a bar and watching another drug drop.
Placer was at the ready. Somewhere. He couldn’t risk being spotted, but Sal wasn’t worried. The thug had a facility for covering his tracks. He needed to be careful. He could be recognized. Maybe by someone who had been in the vicinity of the parking lot the day Bob was found dead. Just the thought of the ruthless killer made Sal sweat, and he wanted to be rid of him, too.
He had other regrets. He sincerely wished Sergi had been better at his job, but the developer had been more interested in his paycheck than hyping up the money-laundering scheme and pulling off the kidnapping.
Of course, Sal and Placer knew nothing about the scheme Hank Miles, the DEA, and Chief Duncan had cooked up to greet the arrival of the seaplane, Mephisto. And he had no idea of Jack Murninghan’s part in the drop. Sal was pretty much in the dark about a lot of the details. He would take the money, and run.
Sal sat with Tony in the back office at the High Tide. Several platters of greasy battered shrimp and grouper and empty beer bottles littered a side table. Sal had his feet on a chair. Tony had gone through the drop drill many times, and he felt one more run-through was necessary. Sal was twitchy and restless. He didn’t seem to be tracking on the business at hand. And Placer, for all his worth, was MIA. “That bag of bones,” said Sal. “Don’t know where he got himself off to but he better show.”
“Forget him. We don’t have to do much,” Tony said, “except watch that the business goes down nicely. We’ve got people.”
“What does that mean? I’ve got people, too.”
“I mean, you don’t have to go swimming for the goods. I’ve got people who will drag the stuff under the dock into the boats and on to the trucks. You want to look?”
“Sure.”
Tony got up and Sal followed him.
Miles waved at Tony as he walked through the bar with Sal. It was all Jack could do not to strangle Sal, but he pulled his baseball cap low and kept his head down out of sight.
Haasi and Blanche—and now Liza—had moved to a booth. Jack eyed them. They were up to something. He couldn’t let it go. He had to get them out of there.
Minutes later, Miles called Jack out onto the deck. They fumbled over a pack of cigarettes and peered out over the bay. The evening was calm, a blue-black sky over water. A half-moon scattered light on the rippled
surface of the bay.
They leaned on the deck rail, pretending their old drunken buddy routine. Their eyes shifted to Tony and Sal a short distance away. Miles could hear them with the listening device behind his left ear, and the conversation was being recorded. Tony had been bugged—in the lining of the leather of his favorite cigarette case. He carried it with him all the time. It had taken Miles a long time to determine where and how to plant the thing, so small and flat it was no larger than a squashed bug. Miles was glad Tony was a chain smoker, and that he took the case everywhere.
“Well, how can you risk it? There are people around,” said Sal.
“They clear out after one,” said Tony. “Do you see a lot of people hanging around here in the middle of the week? We usually make the drop on a Tuesday, but we have to mix it up. Makes it nice to do it then. Sort it out, get paid, have the goods for sale by Friday night when it gets hopping.”
Miles and Jack threw out just enough football terms to make anyone think this was a couple of semi-drunk guys arguing over stats. Miles hated smoking, but it was necessary in his line of work. He leaned on the deck rail, cupping the cigarette, occasionally jabbing the air with it.
“Hey, Miles, how you doin’?”
Miles acknowledged the bar owner with a nonchalant wave, and then he turned to offer Jack a cigarette and light it for him—his back to Tony and Sal.
“Street value. Mmmmm. Couple mil per this drop. Coke, heroin. Got Rick back on the Mephisto. Gonna be a nice one, this drop. Gonna be my payday,” said Sal.
“You can count it already, Sal? You don’t cut it with too much shit, do you? They know it. They’re payin’.”
“We aim to please. Ya know, I’m gonna miss the business. Been a good run and all. But I have to get out. I’m gettin’ on, Ton.”
Tony’s face brightened at the mention that Sal was getting older. Tony could step up, get his end of the trade pumping, take more control of the business. There seemed to be no lessening of demand. The restaurant would go under before this business with the coke, heroin, and marijuana did.
Saving Tuna Street Page 22
