by Karl Tutt
Chapter Nine
Bart’s plane touched down at the Miami airport right on time. No problems. He knew to leave the Kimber and the box cutter at the house in T.J. That’s all he needed . . . to be flagged and arrested by the T.S.A. It was another thirty minutes before he exited with his carry-on and made his way to the Enterprise rental booth. The agent was a fresh-smelling blond who should have made tooth-paste commercials. He paid cash in advance for a week. She gave him a map.
The car was a Ford Focus, royal blue with matching velour seats. Clean, but nothing fancy . . . all he’d need to skirt through the city. He found a convenience store nearby and purchased a throw away cell with three hours of pre-paid time. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled Post-It note with two numbers on it. He called the one at the top first. This was something he needed, and he wanted it now.
He had a few minutes. He punched in the address on the GPS and drove. On the way to the coffee shop, he stopped by an Ace Hardware and bought a retractable razor knife, a small beige canvas bag, and a can of WD 40. Nothing that would attract any attention.
The coffee shop was in Little Havana, tucked into a space not much bigger than a master bedroom in one of those palatial condos on the beach. There was a choice of tables . . . mostly because he was the only customer. He took a seat near the back. The place was dusty and he figured his forearm would stick to the tabletop if he left it in place too long. He didn’t care. Bart wasn’t there because of the sanitation rating. He ordered a cup of black Cuban, and a pastelito from a tired woman wearing a stained apron. After a few minutes, he caught the ruffle of a curtain in a dark corner. A man came out and sat across from him. He looked like a walking cliché . . . a Pancho Villa moustache drooping over his lips, full black eyebrows, olive skin, and fleshy lips. He could have been the Mexican villain from “The Magnificent Seven”.
“I think we have mutual friends,” he said quietly.
Bart nodded three times and held up two fingers. It was the sign.
“You have money?”
Bart retrieved eight crisp one hundred dollar bills from the back pocket of his jeans. He snapped them one by one, and laid them on the sticky table. Pancho reached to his back and pulled a Sig Sauer .40 from his belt. He placed it next to the cash, then maybe 50 rounds of ammo in a plastic baggie. Bart picked up the Sig and popped the magazine. The serial numbers had been ground off. The scent of sweet gun oil filled his nostrils. He held it for a moment, turned it over in his hands, eyed it carefully, checked to see that the chamber was empty. He racked it once, then pulled the trigger. There was a reassuring click. Smooth, clean, and lethal. It would do nicely. Pancho picked up the bills and went back through the curtain.
“Enjoy your coffee,” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared.
Bart eyed the pistol, and ran his hand over the razor knife in his pocket. He had left Luis, a degenerate and a thief, but nevertheless, a one-time friend, with scars that would never vanish. But then the thought of a frightened, probably violated, child flashed in his mind. His child, his Maria Elena. He would act. Would God forgive him? At this point it didn’t matter.
The first call had rendered very satisfactory results, but the second call was the one he worried about. He didn’t know these people. How could he trust them? Sure, they were highly recommended . . . friends of friends . . . but he knew all too well that there wasn’t really any honor among thieves. He’d known too many of them . . . and sometimes there wasn’t much difference between them and the federales. Still it was his best shot, and besides, it was the only one he had.
Priss had been to Maddy’ apartment with forensics. She’d seen all she needed to, and the horror of the place coupled with her own tortured nightmares made her want to run . . . and to kill. She’d left Pete and Don there with the forensics team. When the phone on Pete’s desk rang, she answered. The man asked for Pedro, by name.
“This is Detective Maybry, his supervisor. May I help you?”
The voice on the other end of the line hesitated. It was male and she noted a definite Hispanic accent. Nothing unusual. Half of the damned city was from Cuba or someplace south. Those people liked to deal with their own, even though most of them were American citizens. She certainly couldn’t blame them. She spoke again.
“Can I take a number? I assure you he’ll get the message.”
Bart was unsure. He just didn’t trust any cop, but the cell was untraceable and easy to replace. He spit out the digits and hung up. He’d just have to wait. He found a cheap motel just to the north, off I-95. Close by. Good rates. The room was clean. Again, he paid cash for a week in advance. By then, he prayed he’d have the child. If not, he’d settle his debts, or they’d find him face-down in an alley somewhere.
