Dark Cay

by Douglas Pratt

  Moreno chuckled. “No, I did not ask you here to talk about your holiday.”

  “How did you know I was back in the States?” I questioned him.

  The waiter returned with a Caribe in a bottle. He offered a glass that I waved off.

  “I like to know things,” Moreno replied.

  “Don’t tell me,” I responded as I took a swallow of the cold beer.

  “No, Mister Gordon, I like you,” he remarked. “You have…gumption.”

  “Gumption?” I asked.

  “Maybe I said it wrong?”

  “No, it’s just a bit unusual. Like you picked it up from an old TV show.”

  He shrugged.

  I stated, “It works as well as anything else, I guess.”

  “My point,” he continued, “is that when we last spoke, I did not consider you an enemy.”

  Agreeing, I said, “That’s the way I felt. We have a certain understanding of each other.”

  Moreno picked up a glass of iced tea and sipped it. “In my business, I have a lot of pressure. There are Federal agents on the street trying to follow me everywhere I go. It makes business difficult.”

  “If you are about to offer me another job,” I started, “I’m going to turn you down again.”

  “No,” he confirmed, “I do not seek your employ as yet. However, I would like to do a favor for you.”

  Cocking my head, I stared at him for a second. Finally, I asked, “Is this some kind of a deal with the devil?”

  Moreno laughed. “Is that what I am? El diablo?”

  “Call me a pessimist,” I told him. “You don’t seem like the good-hearted fellow that’s going to help me change a tire on the side of the road out of the goodness of your heart.”

  “Let’s say that it is not a favor,” he conceded. “Es información.”

  The waiter returned with a plate, filled with two roasted chicken thighs over a bed of yellowed rice with a corn salsa spread over the top.

  “Es Pollo Asado,” the waiter explained.

  “Gracias,” I nodded my appreciation. “It looks delicious.”

  “One of the house specialties,” Moreno stated.

  “Why are you offering me information?”

  “The last time we met,” Moreno explained, “we were at a stalemate. I do not like a peace that is brokered on threats.”

  “And you want a real peace between us?”

  “I would like to consider you a friend,” he admitted.

  Warily, I responded, “A friend? I don’t think we are compatible.”

  Moreno looked at Velazquez, who held the same smug countenance he always had as if he was attempting to emulate The Great Stone Face.

  “Consider this a gift.”

  I waited.

  “Someone is looking for you,” he said. “There have been several inquiries on the street for information on a Chase Gordon.”

  Lifting an eyebrow, I asked, “What are they asking?”

  “The questions are vague. ‘Has anyone seen a sailboat named Carina?’ ‘Where does Chase Gordon live?’ Questions like that.”

  Cutting into the chicken thigh, I wanted to appear nonplussed.

  “One of my men recalled our interaction earlier this year. They thought that there might be a reward for this information.”

  My eyes shot up to a framed picture over Velazquez’s head. Using the reflection, I scanned the dining room behind me. Nothing seemed amiss, but now the adrenaline pumped through me. I chewed the same bite of chicken until the mush in my mouth lost all flavor. Finally, I swallowed the bite.

  “Do you know who is looking for me?”

  Moreno shook his head. “I do not. However, given our stalemate, I have clearly ordered that no one who works with me should consider cashing in on you.”

  He seemed sincere. Most likely, he saw this as an opening. He tried to seduce me with money, and now, he was using this opportunity to ingratiate himself with me.

  “I appreciate that,” I told him.

  He nodded.

  “Can you tell me anything?”

  Moreno lifted his hands as if in surrender. “Would that I could,” he stated. “Everything is from the mouths of babes, so to speak.”

  I took another bite. The adrenaline had subsided, allowing me to enjoy the flavor of the Pollo Asado.

  “You should take care,” Moreno warned. “The person looking for you has wasted no time. He must have resources.”

  “Have you heard of a company called FC Investments?”

  Moreno pursed his lips and shook his head. “You know who is looking for you?”

  Shaking my head, I answered, “No, but I can guess why they are looking for me.”

  Moreno’s head bobbed as he absorbed what I said. “I would suggest great caution.”

  “Agreed,” I conceded. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “I like you, Chase,” he said with growing familiarity.

  Taking a few more bites, I was attempting to be polite; however my appetite was gone. The men looking for Lily were far more dangerous than I initially credited them. The word was spreading about me, and if Moreno picked up on it, it wouldn’t be long before someone else who knew where Carina was berthed said something.

  What kind of power has tendrils in the RBDF and the Miami drug trade? What else can they be into? It only took a quick call to a friend to get the registration for Garrett’s cigarette boat. What could someone with the authority they seemed to wield find from other agencies?

  Not to mention, I’m driving around in a car that has the Tilly Inn’s logo emblazoned on the side. I might as well send out engraved invitations to the Manta Club.

  Looking up from my plate at Moreno, I offered, “Thank you again. I need to be going.”

  “I’m at your disposal,” Moreno stated. “If you would like, Esteban can escort you back to the Tilly Inn.”

  “No,” I refused, “I can manage.”

  Standing up, I extended my hand to the drug lord, who grasped mine firmly. I gave Scar a curt nod. The stoic man returned the gesture.

  Outside on the sidewalk, I found myself scanning the streets for unusual cars. The carpet cleaning van two blocks away was the only oddity, and it was exactly the type of vehicle the DEA would consider camouflage.

  At the moment, I was feeling like I was playing catch-up. I prefer knowing the battlefield or, at the very least, who the opponent is.

  Time to turn that around.

  12

  Much like cell phones, I abhor the idea of a credit card. Along with easy monthly plans and automatically renewing annual subscription plans, credit cards are a chain that people voluntarily wrap around their necks while trying to swim the channel. The weight of ever-growing debt ties people to the dock and forces them to enslave themselves for 40 hours a week, 50 weeks a year, to a grind that seems to only benefit the credit card companies. These people become dismayed when they can’t get across the water when it’s hard enough just to keep afloat. Real dreams aren’t something that can be found on a payment plan.

  I despise them—but sometimes they are required by the powers-that-be. Some corrupt plan devised by the system we created. Trying to rent a car is one of those times where that little ball and chain is a necessity. Car rental dealerships have somehow decided that a person who has no money is far more responsible with their property than a fellow with a wad of cash. Society is a funny thing. The rules are arbitrary and designed to maintain control of the masses.

  While I might be forced to play by the rules, I manage my own risk. The card that I keep in my wallet only has a $1,000 security deposit on it. If a company demands that I swipe so that I have the right to do something, I will swipe it. Even with a line of credit, I still try to pay with cash. It’s a stupid system, and in order to not become its slave, I attempt to maneuver through the loopholes. The last thing I want is to find myself forced to work to pay off tens of thousands of dollars when I could be living.

  With the massive influx of tourist
s, South Florida has more car rental shops than barbershops. It was quick and simple to drop the Tilly’s Toyota back with Randy and walk the half block to a budget rental place, where with the reluctant swipe of my credit card, I was given an almost new Ford Fusion.

  From Randy’s office, I called Missy and asked her to make sure that Lily had some food and stayed in her room. Missy squawked a bit, but she agreed. The last thing I wanted to do was to tell her that some bad people were looking for me. That might hit a little close to home.

  Common sense warned me that I might be watched. Staying clear of Lily was the safest thing I could do. There was no way they couldn’t know that I hadn’t turned Lily over to the law. The smart move would be to follow me until I lead them right to her.

  Travis and Lily lived in a house in St. Petersburg. It was a little shy of a four-hour drive, and if I was being tailed, there was ample opportunity to spot them.

  The little Fusion zipped along the highway as I skirted the southern side of Lake Okeechobee. The road took me through several small towns that reeked of old Florida. The towering trees with draping Spanish moss loomed over old motels with neon vacancy signs lighted up. These were inns that tourists rarely visit yet somehow look maintained. Houses sporting signs for hair salons and tax preparation appeared every few miles. “Small engine repair” was painted on worn pieces of plywood and tacked onto a pine tree every two miles, in case somehow you missed the first six. Every town had one gas station offering the opportunity to see baby alligators.

  Take a car at least 20 miles from either coast, and Florida begins to look like a different state. Except for Orlando, the rest of the interior felt 15 years behind schedule. The roads were maintained because it was the only way Chad and Karen could get from St. Pete to West Palm to Key West. The small towns’ survival that was once predicated on the highway passing through the center of town now resorted to gaudy signs advertising the presence of alligators, either as babies or dried into jerky.

  After two hours on the road, I pulled into a tiny diner with three cars in front of a big picture window with Mamaw’s Kitchen hand-painted on the glass. The table beside the window was empty, as were all but one of the rest. Taking the seat that allowed me to watch the road from the east, I settled in.

  “Can I get you a drink?” a short freckled-face girl asked. She was a product of the Glades. One of those Floridians that was born here, a rare commodity. She grew up watching the local high school football team every Friday night. One day, she would marry some former high school star, either from this town or the next one over, and birth a few more natural Floridians. They’d all eschew the coastline with the snowbirds and tourists that sent concrete and housing prices toward the sky.

  “Unsweet tea, please.”

  The opal-eyed girl pulled a pad from her apron. She made a rapid judgment: only heathens get tea without sugar.

  As she scrawled a “T” on the notepad, she suggested, “Special today is liver and onions.”

  Curling my lip, I responded, “I’ll pass. Just get me the grilled catfish with some green beans and corn.”

  She made the note on her pad and vanished. A minute later, she reappeared with a glass of iced tea before disappearing again.

  Watching out the window, I didn’t see anyone unusual. No strangers. No unusual cars slowing as they passed through town. The diner was the lone business on this stretch of road. Anyone tailing me had to park here or wait for me down the road.

  Being the only business for miles, the diner began to fill with locals, breaking for lunch. Despite the booming regular business, my catfish took eight minutes. A bit quick, but the fish was freshly cooked. And spicy. The beans and corn were bland and canned.

  The whole meal came to almost $12. I handed over three five-dollar bills; she gave me a glass of tea in a Styrofoam cup.

  On the highway, there didn’t seem to be any vehicles waiting to pull out behind me. Maybe I was a bit paranoid. I still kept my eye on the rear-view mirror, just in case.

  By the time I reached the outskirts of Tampa-St. Pete, traffic was such that a fleet of people could follow me without my being able to spot them.

  Crossing over the bridge, I turned my gaze outward for a second to the Gulf of Mexico. The sun was sinking into the sea, almost on the horizon, and it was the time of day when the fiery ball moved faster than the rest of the day as if it was being lowered on a string into the water.

  The Porters’ home was in a neighborhood smack in the middle of the city, about three miles from Tampa Bay. Rows of bungalows and cottages priced in the high $300s lined the street. The address that Jay gave me was halfway down the residential road. The little bungalow had been updated with a brick porch, complete with arch and wrought iron. The concrete in the driveway was removed, replaced with sandstone. The yard was mulched with red gravel and littered with palms and small trees.

  The mailbox was full; Travis didn’t stop his mail. I backed into the driveway. My paranoia was still eating at the base of my brain.

  The western sky was on fire as the red sun reflected off the Gulf. From the east, a blanket was being pulled over Florida. The streetlights popped on, and the worker bees were returning to their hives carrying take-out.

  I didn’t have a key, so not wanting to draw too much attention, I went through the wooden gate leading to the back yard. Porter landscaped the back just like the front. None of the plants were high-maintenance, and the whole yard lacked a feminine touch. The screened porch overlooked the graveled yard. The cheap door swung open; its latch bent back.

  Someone had been here before me. The bottom windowpane was missing. Not broken, just missing. As if it was cleaned up. I might not have noticed if I hadn’t tried to break it myself.

  At least they locked the door after they left. Made sense. Travis goes missing with a large sum of money. The first place I would look was his home.

  Reaching through the window, I unlocked the door. Decay washed past me, causing me to gasp.

  Pulling the top of my shirt over my face, I stepped inside. The cotton fabric didn’t help, and after a minute, the smell diminished. More likely, I grew accustomed to it. There was a familiarity to it. Not a comforting one, but familiar.

  The kitchen was in shambles. Plates with dried, rotten food filled the sink, and the room buzzed with hundreds of flies.

  Just leave, Chase. You know what’s in there. You don’t need to see it.

  That wasn’t true. I did know what it was. There were no questions about what I knew was there. There was the question of “Who?” Travis didn’t make much sense. The swarm of flies indicated that they had been breeding longer than a day or two.

  My hands pulled tight against me. Don’t touch anything.

  Moving into the den, I found the answer. The buzzing of flies increased; an arrhythmic thuck-thuck of the larger ones hitting the windows added a repulsive percussion to the orchestration. The center of the stage held a kitchen chair. A boy was bound by his legs and arms to it like some macabre Halloween decoration. Deep gashes ran down his face. The swollen eyes holding a look of surprise that might have come when the knife sliced open his throat, spilling the contents of his carotid artery down his chest.

  J.J., maybe. He was the right age to be Lily’s boyfriend.

  I wanted to sit down. There wasn’t something here that I hadn’t seen before. The kid was young. Too young to die because he had the wrong girlfriend.

  I wanted to sit down, but I wasn’t going to.

  Leave now, Chase. The common-sense angel was screaming at me. Loud enough that I couldn’t distinguish what the curious side of me wanted to say.

  A short survey of the den didn’t fire off any questions, and I backed out slowly. Using the bottom of my shirt, I wiped the doorknob I unlocked earlier. After the door was closed, I wiped the patio door, in case I touched it.

  In a minute, I was out of the neighborhood, driving as safely as possible.

  No ground was gained today. I drove north into Tampa,
trying to stay on side streets. If anything, I learned what these people were willing to do. That kid’s face was going to bed with me tonight—the needlessness of it. I’ve seen evil and necessity. This had all the earmarks of excess. Overkill. Maybe even pleasure.

  Somewhere in Tampa, I found a motel. It looked old enough to be obscure but in a part of town that might not pay attention to the security cameras. The red and pink neon flashed “Flamingo Motor Court” and “HBO.” For $35, I could have a room. For $50, I didn’t need to leave a card. I took the latter option.

  The clerk gave me an actual key with a little plastic tag that read 17. Across the street, a liquor store’s neon glow attracted me. Returning with a bottle of Jack Daniels, I stopped at the vending machine for two cans of Pepsi.

  Room 17 was dreary, with yellowed ceilings. The television did get HBO, and I dropped into the chair at the table. I filled one of the plastic cups two-thirds full with Jack before topping it off with Pepsi.

  Staring at some Leonardo DiCaprio film, I lifted the plastic cup to J.J.

  13

  The fields were steaming as the cool dew released into the air. The early morning sun glittered through the trees igniting the mist with sparkling fire. The rows of trees were flowering. Another month or so, the oranges and grapefruit would droop the branches. Birds flitted from tree to tree, snatching the insects attracted by the blossoms.

  Joe Loggins watched the birds from his perch on the porch that wrapped around the Victorian home. An observer might think him nothing more than a stereotypical example of the plantation owners that Southern literature had planted in the minds of the rest of the country. His fingers held a dainty China coffee cup with ornate leaves and flowers. He stared off across the grove with a visage of concentration as if he was counting every piece of fruit on every tree in the orchard.

  The citrus grove was retired years earlier when Joe received it, a payment for a service. The farm was over 100 years old, and the house was added in the 1920s. At the time, Elias Haynes’ house was the only home in the midst of the lake region. The lumber was shipped in from Valdosta, Georgia. The building crew lived in tents around the orange trees that Haynes planted.