dog island

by Mike Stewart

  Estevez said, “She’s fine. Reports are that there was some kind of argument, and Purcell walked out and left her at the party.”

  I thought it was kind of soon to already have “reports” on Purcell’s date that morning. I said, “Well, that’s good,” and decided it was time for an awkward pause.

  I was getting on Estevez’s nerves. He wanted to tell me about Purcell’s death, and I wanted to get off the phone.

  Almost five seconds passed before Estevez said, “Purcell had been … Our man found him spread-eagle on the top of his desk with a bunch of nails hammered through his wrists and the skin on the sides of his neck and, pardon the detail, but…”

  I interrupted. “I got the picture.” Once again, Estevez paused. I asked, “Anything else?”

  “That’s not enough?”

  I said, “More than enough.”

  Joey slowed to a respectable speed as we crossed the state line and followed Highway 331 through the fruit-stand-lined streets of Florala. Just a couple of car lengths ahead, hard tropical sunshine bounced off the back window of a red Saturn, partially obscuring our view of four sun-streaked ponytails that bobbed and bounced with animated conversation. The Greek letters for phi mu clung to the red, rear-window brake light, and one of the girls had draped a shapely, suntanned leg out of the front window on the right side. The leg’s owner wiggled her toes in the warm wind as she sipped dark cola from a liter bottle and adjusted her sunglasses.

  Joey said, “That’s what Carli ought to be doin’ at her age.”

  I looked over at him and nodded.

  He said, “It’s not gonna happen, is it? We get her out of this, and—after what her father did to her and everything else—she still ain’t ever gonna be like those little sorority girls.”

  The scene back at Seaside had gotten to him. For Joey, this was pouring his heart out. I put my hand over the cell phone mouthpiece and said, “Not like them. No. But one day she’ll make it. Look at Loutie.”

  Joey was through talking. He was studying the girls. I refocused my attention on the cell phone and on Charlie Estevez, who had been patiently waiting for me to respond to his news about Purcell.

  I said, “Tell Sanchez I need to see him right away.”

  Estevez cleared his throat. “Mr. Sanchez is a very busy man. I’m not even sure where he is, ah…”

  “There have been other, connected deaths today. Do you understand?” Estevez didn’t answer. I said, “And that’s all I’m saying over the phone about that. Sanchez needs to know, though, that somebody’s making a move on everyone involved, and up until now I thought it might be him. That’s why I wasn’t real polite when you told me who you were. But, if it’s not your patriots, you better tell Sanchez to call me in a hurry. This is all spinning out of control, and somebody’s going to pay. You got that?”

  Estevez let a few seconds pass before answering, but when he spoke he sounded more thoughtful than irritated. “I have it. Will you be at this number?”

  “Yeah. Unless my battery gives out. If it does, I’ll call you back in one hour.” I said, “By the way, we learned something interesting today about who my client actually saw with Purcell in See Shore Cottage that night. One of Jethro’s cousins—if you follow me—told my partner that all this started over some Cuban, in his words, some ‘Castro’ getting whacked.” Estevez was quiet. I said goodbye and pushed the end button.

  Joey said, “By any chance, am I the partner who heard about the murder?”

  “Yeah. You are.”

  “Just when exactly did I hear this?”

  I said, “I haven’t decided yet,” then tossed my phone on the seat and pulled Joey’s out of the clip on his dash and called Kelly. I explained to her, somewhat cryptically since we were talking over airwaves, what had happened, and told her to check into a hotel or go visit her mother for a few days. Kelly promised to get out of town.

  When I finished, I filled Joey in on Charlie Estevez’s side of our phone conversation, and Joey said, “Gimme that,” and took his phone out of my hand. He called Randy Whittles, Navy SEAL and loser of lost girls, and checked on his progress finding Carli. Joey filled Randy in on what was happening and told him to be available in Mobile that night for a meeting.

  Joey put the phone back in its dashboard holder and said, “We gotta get everybody together tonight and figure out what to do about all this.”

  I said, “I’m not going to vote on it, Joey. I’m going to find out who took Susan and … and cause somebody some pain.”

  Joey looked miserable. “I know it doesn’t look good, but we don’t know what the hell happened with Susan today. And, Tom, I like Susan too. Not like you do. But she’s my friend too. Believe me, if we find out somebody hurt her, I’m gonna skip the pain part and go right to killing the sonofabitch.”

  Bright sunshine glinted off the hood and burned a fiery oval into my retina. I closed my eyes and rubbed hard at them with the heels of my hands. I could still see the blazing dot. Joey said, “There’s a pair of sunglasses in the glove box.”

  I put them on.

  I said, “You remember telling me about that dagger tattoo on the arm of one of the guys who jumped you outside the bar the first night you were in Apalachicola?”

  “Outside Mother’s Milk. Yeah. I remember.”

  “You said there were initials over and under it.”

  Joey rubbed his jaw. “Yeah. I remember it said R.I.P. Rest in Peace, I guess. And it had something like initials too.”

  “R.E.T.”

  “I’d have to check my notes.”

  “It’s R.E.T. I remember. And I saw the tattoo myself on Sunday.” Joey glanced over. I said, “Sonny. Purcell’s guy who was one of the painters. It’s the same asshole who burned Susan’s painting.”

  Joey smiled a little for the first time since leaving Seaside behind. “The one you threw grits at.”

  I nodded. “And the one Billy Teeter’s partner, Julie, called to come kill me after Willie fell in the water off Dog Island. Look, I was thinking. There are obviously a hell of a lot of names that start with T, but the arm stamped with this particular T is tied to Julie and the Teeters. So, I was thinking that maybe we could make another donation to your friends on the Panama City force and find out if they have any record of a convicted felon named R. E. Teeter. You said it looked like a prison tattoo.”

  Joey sat and thought about that for a few seconds. “It was definitely one of those shitty homemade jobs like people get in prison. Can’t be sure, though. Nowadays, street punks give themselves fake prison ink to try and look tough, but…” He picked up his cell phone and dialed up Detective Coosa in Panama City.

  When the conversation ended, Joey put his phone back in its clip on the dash and said, “He’ll call back.”

  Twenty minutes later, the phone rang. It was Sanchez. We set up a meeting at my office that night in Mobile; then Joey called Randy to make arrangements for that evening.

  An hour went by before Detective Coosa called. Joey listened, made phone noises, and hung up. He said, “Rudolph Enis Teeter.”

  I said, “Not a really dangerous-sounding name.”

  Joey grinned. “Damn if I wouldn’t wanna be called Sonny too.”

  “What did he do time for?”

  “Assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder, and resisting arrest.”

  I said, “Tough guy.”

  Joey said, “Or just a dumbass.”

  chapter twenty-eight

  We pulled into Mobile at rush hour and slowly made our way to Loutie’s house. As we turned down her comfortable, tree-lined street, Joey said, “You sure this is a good idea? Your buddy Carlos could be behind this whole thing.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so. I think he’s the catalyst.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “A catalyst is…”

  “I may not be a lawyer, Tom, but I’m not a moron. How is Sanchez a catalyst?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”


  Joey said, “Thanks. I’m glad I asked.”

  “But it’s got something to do with the fat guy on the beach and whether somebody thought Leroy Purcell stepped outside his territory or overstepped some kind of bounds when he started smuggling and shooting people on the islands.”

  Petite, dangerous, and nervous, Randy was waiting inside when we arrived. Two of his men kept watch on the street and the alley. Loutie Blue wasn’t home yet, and Joey was having a hard time hiding his concern. Finally, he called her and found out she was caught up in traffic.

  Randy had picked up Chinese takeout, but I skipped the egg rolls and rice and found a bottle of Dewar’s. After two whiskies, I thought I was better. After the third drink, I could feel the tense tingling pressure that, since I was a child, has always closed in on the sides of my throat when I’m going to lose it, and tears began to fill my eyelids. Without excuse or explanation, I left Joey and Randy in the kitchen shoveling Mongolian beef into their mouths and pretending not to notice that there was another grown man in the room who was crying—sort of. I walked through the house to the room where Susan and I had made love while panic had gripped Carli and sent her climbing through a window to escape into the night.

  Inside the bathroom, I twisted the shower’s ceramic crosses and stripped and stepped into the steaming spray. Hot water poured over my face and scalp and shoulders, and I tried to think. If Susan really was dead, well, there would be time to grieve. But, right now, I had to work on the premise that she and Carli were alive and well and out there somewhere in desperate need of help.

  I stood there beneath the stinging spray until it turned warm and then cold, and I stood there some more to let the frigid water run over my face. It didn’t help. I checked my reflection in the mirror while drying off, and I still looked awful. I didn’t necessarily look like I had been crying, which, I admit, was what I was worried about, but I still, unarguably, looked, as Joey would say, like shit on a lollipop.

  When I was dressed, I took a deep breath—and a lesson from Loutie Blue—and pushed the hurt and anger down deep where, I hoped, I could use them when the time came.

  Back downstairs, Randy and his men had left to recon my office building and take up positions. Joey and I climbed into his Expedition and followed. Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the deck of the Oswyn Israel Building and stepped out into the oppressively dark concrete structure. As we walked toward the entrance to my building, I whispered. “Somebody’s here.”

  Joey spoke even more quietly than I had. All he said was, “Yeah.”

  “Is it Randy’s men?”

  Joey shook his head and whispered. “No idea,” but I noticed the Glock 9mm had moved out of his shoulder holster and into his hand.

  I used my key card to open the double glass doors and work the elevator. The hall was lighted, and my office door was open. Odd Job waited, appropriately enough, in the waiting room. As we entered he tried to pat me down. I pushed him away, and, with surprising speed, Odd Job pulled a gun from inside his coat. But before he could level it, something white flashed across his face and he hit the floor shoulders first. I looked over and saw Joey massaging his right fist with his left hand. His gun was on the floor.

  Joey said, “I figured you didn’t want him shot.”

  I said, “Knocked on his ass is good.”

  We found Sanchez waiting in my office. He stood and nodded. “Good evening.”

  Joey said, “Not for Sumo Joe out there.”

  Sanchez looked puzzled and stepped out of the office. We followed. Sanchez very nearly tripped over his three-hundred-pound bodyguard, who lay unconscious on the floor opposite the front door. Odd Job, a.k.a. Sumo Joe, was breathing heavily, and a small rivulet of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Sanchez asked, “What is this about?”

  I said, “He behaved badly at the end of a bad day.”

  Sanchez looked a little disgusted, but I couldn’t tell with whom. He turned and walked back into my office and sat in the upholstered guest chair he had been using when we came in. Then he casually, almost gracefully, crossed his legs and said, “It also was a bad day for Leroy Purcell.”

  Joey said, “We don’t really give a shit about Leroy Purcell’s day.”

  Sanchez shrugged and turned to me. “I cannot sympathize with whatever difficulties you encountered today because I do not know what you are talking about. On the telephone, you told Señor Estevez that there have been other deaths. That is all I know.”

  I looked at Joey, and he raised his shoulders. Tell him if you want to.

  So I leaned back in my chair, put my feet on the desk, and told Carlos Sanchez about our day on Dog Island.

  As I talked, Sanchez pulled out his cigar case and placed a long, thin Montecristo between his small, white teeth. As he put the match to the end, he said, “They knew about the listening devices.”

  I said, “Yeah. It looks that way.”

  He said, “I am sorry about Señora Fitzsimmons, uh, missing. As you know, I wanted very much to avoid anything like this.”

  I looked at him. “Actually, you assured me that Purcell would leave me and Susan alone.”

  He held up open palms. “We did all we could to control the situation. Leroy Purcell is… was too ambitious for his own good. I imagine his death was no great loss to anyone.”

  “No shit.”

  He paused. “You said there was an attempted ambush. People died.”

  “We had to kill them to escape.”

  “Where are the bodies?”

  I said, “In a house used by the Bodines on Dog Island. A man named Thomas Bobby Haycock has been living there.”

  He said, “Do you expect me to clean up your mess? Is that why you are telling me this?”

  I said, “Yep.”

  Sanchez said, “No,” and Joey’s Glock 9mm appeared. Sanchez said, “Do you plan to kill me also?”

  Joey shrugged.

  I said, “If I thought you had anything to do with Susan, you’d already be dead. But I don’t think you would have come here if you had. So we have to decide how we’re going to move forward. Joey and I are working on the assumption that you and your group are either going to be with us or against us. In other words, we don’t see you sitting on the sidelines while we get slaughtered. And if you’re not willing to help, that means—and I’m just guessing here—that you will probably try to kill us to keep this mess from getting any messier and to keep the cops out of your business. And Mr. Sanchez, or whoever the hell you are, if you’re going to try to kill us, well, we have to figure we’ve got a better chance of staying alive long enough to find Susan if we shoot you right now.”

  Sanchez let thick, gray smoke drift out through his nostrils. He said, “I could simply lie and kill you later.”

  “That’s true. But I don’t think you will. Something’s going on with the Bodines, and I think you need to know what it is. Your contact man, Leroy Purcell, just had his guts cut out by someone.” I said, “The man had a long list of enemies, but it’s too much to believe it’s a coincidence that he got killed the same afternoon when someone was busy kidnapping Susan and trying to kill Joey and me. It’s all connected somehow. And since you didn’t do it, and since Joey and I don’t have a frigging clue, it stands to reason that killing us isn’t going to solve the problem.” I paused, and Sanchez remained quiet. I said, “So, in short, someone’s drawing a lot of attention to the Bodines in a way that’s bad for you and for us. We don’t want to go to jail for defending ourselves on the island, and you don’t want your fellow patriots to rot in South America while you try to set up a new operation. And you sure as hell don’t want to get yourself in the newspaper or on the evening news.”

  Sanchez looked from me to Joey and back again. He said, “I expected more. That is a weak argument, Señor McInnes.” This time, I shrugged. He inhaled deeply from his Montecristo, blew a long, narrow plume of smoke at the ceiling, and said, “If the bodies have not already been discovered,
we can take care of the cleanup on Dog Island.” My stomach tightened as I heard cleanup used the same disturbing way for a second time that day. “But understand that I am making what I believe is the logical choice under the circumstances. Please do not fool yourself that you can deal with us through threats.” And he rose to leave. As he passed Odd Job, he stopped and looked down.

  Joey said, “I got ‘im,” and walked over to drag the unconscious bodyguard outside.

  Sanchez turned back to look at me. “You told Charlie Estevez that one of the Bodines you saw today said something about your client seeing Purcell kill a Cuban.”

  “Nope. He said, as nearly as Joey could remember, that, quote, ‘all this mess started over a fucking Castro getting whacked.’”

  Sanchez said, “What else did he say?”

  I said, “As far as I know, nothing.” I hesitated and said, “There was something else, but it didn’t make much sense.”

  “What was that?”

  “This guy, I think it was the one who ended up with a broken neck, tried to bargain with Joey. He said he could tell us about ‘the fat spic in the swamp.’” I stood and looked at him. “Does that make any sense to you?”

  A.k.a. Carlos Sanchez looked at the floor and shook his head as if giving the question great thought and coming up empty; then he walked out the door.

  When Joey came back in, I asked if Sanchez had tried to talk to him in the hallway. He shook his head and said, “You think you talked him out of killing us?”

  “I don’t know. I think, probably yeah, for the time being.”

  “It was kind of a weak-ass argument.”

  “Yeah. Well, you’d be right except for one thing.”

  Joey looked puzzled.

  I said, “Sanchez’s front group owns the house on Dog Island where you just left a pile of dead guys. And he’s scared to death somebody’s going to find out.”

  chapter twenty-nine

  We headed back to Loutie Blue’s house, making sure, we thought, that no one was tailing us. As we came through the front door, Loutie came downstairs, and I heard the back door close a few seconds before young Randy Whittles strode into the room. He said, “We made two in the alley and two on the street.”