by Ron Base
“The father was killed?”
“I’m afraid so,” Patricio said.
“Who killed him?”
“If you listen to Paola, she would say it was me.”
“I see.”
“An act that in retrospect was ill-advised, I admit. Paola’s father was much easier to get along with than Paola. After she took over the gang, she proved to be many, many times more ruthless and ambitious than her father ever was.
“For a time the Estrela Cartel under Paola did very well. But now that has begun to change. The efforts of the government to bring down the narcos have taken a particular toll on her business. What’s more, she has engaged in endless wars with other gangs so that now she is almost broke and desperate for money.”
“Which begins to explain what she is doing in South Florida,” Tree said.
“Paola always wants something,” Patricio said. “What is it she wants from you?”
“Nine million dollars.”
“The question is, do you have it?”
“Supposing I did? What then?”
“If you have it and give it to her, she will kill you, and probably kill your wife as well.”
“She says she won’t do that.”
Patricio shrugged and said, “She is lying. Paola always lies. Particularly when it comes to killing. She kills everyone. That is what she does. She is a killing machine.”
Tree found himself having trouble swallowing—a recurring problem when his life was in jeopardy. “So what can I do?”
“There is only one way to stop Paola,” Patricio said.
“Do I have to ask what that is?”
“You cut off the head of la Bruja Mala.”
“I’m not very good at cutting people’s heads off,” Tree said.
“Obviously not,” said Patricio. “From my perspective, you can imagine I am not happy to discover that you could provide Paola with badly needed operating capital. She must not get her hands on your money.”
“So what are you proposing?”
“When are you supposed to meet Paola?”
“Tonight.”
“Where?”
“That I don’t know yet.”
Patricio said, “I suggest you go ahead with the meeting.”
“Where will you be?”
“Don’t worry about us, Mr. Callister.”
“And supposing I don’t actually have the money?”
Patricio’s eyes appeared to sink even deeper into his lined and creviced face. “Then you had better find the money between now and your rendezvous. Otherwise, Paola will be very unhappy. And so will I.”
On the TV set, Tree saw Elvis, poised atop a high cliff, preparing to dive hundreds of feet into a sea strewn with rocky outcroppings. Elvis looked uncharacteristically nervous. Tree knew how he felt.
34
Freddie hadn’t arrived home by the time Tree pulled into the drive at Andy Rosse Lane.
He parked the car and went through the house into the darkened garage. He snapped on the wall light, illuminating the interior with its built-in workbench and shiny tool board, both empty and unused, the current male occupant of the house not being much of a home handyman. Not much of anything these days, he reflected, simply an aging man, his body racked with pain, possessed of a boundless ability to get himself into trouble he was not certain he could get himself out of again.
An aging man finding it far too easy to feel sorry for himself.
Tree stopped in the middle of the garage. For a couple of moments he heard nothing. Then, from above, movement. Scrambling back and forth. Whispers. Tree moved forward to where a cord dangled from the trap door in the garage ceiling. He grabbed the cord and gave it a good yank. The trap door dropped down unfolding accordion steps. He climbed the steps into the crawlspace between the ceiling and the slant roof. He heard a gasp.
Marcello, along with Joshua and Madison, sat on the floor, staring at Tree, surrounded by the bundles of cash they had removed from the duffle bags beside them.
Madison said, “We didn’t do anything.” She held a cash bundle in her tiny hand.
“It’s all right,” Tree said. “Come on, let’s go downstairs.”
“Are we in trouble?” Joshua asked. “Marcello told us to stay here.”
“That’s what I figured.” Tree looked at Marcello who stared back defiantly. “This is his favorite hiding place.”
“I have to protect my clients,” Marcello said.
“The FBI may not agree with you,” Tree said.
“Tough,” said Marcello.
“Does Mrs. Lake know you’re here?”
“She thinks I’m at a friend’s house,” Marcello said.
Madison indicated the bundles of cash. “This is not our money,” she said.
“I know it isn’t, Madi.”
“Madison,” she said. “It’s Madison.”
“Come on,” Tree said. “Let’s go in the house.”
The three of them followed Tree down the steps into the garage and waited patiently while he went back up and stuffed the cash bundles into the duffle bags and pushed them back into the recesses of the crawlspace. Not that it would do much good if someone came up here looking for them. But for the moment, Tree didn’t imagine anyone would be doing that.
Once he had closed the trap door again, he led the kids into the kitchen. Madison and Joshua wore shorts and T-shirts and looked as though they could use a bath. But otherwise they seemed fine. They wanted to go to McDonald’s. Tree said he didn’t think that was a very good idea under the circumstances. He offered to make them chicken sandwiches, an offer they eagerly accepted.
“So what made you run away from the FBI?” Tree asked with studied casualness as he set about cutting the chicken slices for their sandwiches.
“We did not run away,” corrected Madison. “We just left.”
“We didn’t like those people,” Joshua added.
“How did they get in touch with you, Marcello?”
“How do you think?” Marcello said. “They called me. We all have cellphones, you know.” As if every kid in the world had a cellphone—which, when Tree thought about it, was probably true.
Tree addressed Marcello. “So after I left you at the school, you decided to bring them here.”
“They were already here,” Marcello said.
Joshua nodded. “He said no one would find us.”
“How did you get here?”
“How do you think?” Marcello, slightly disdainful. As if everyone should know this stuff. “We took a taxi.”
“Okay,” Tree said to Marcello. “But why didn’t you tell me what you’re doing? I thought we are partners.”
“We’re only partners when it suits you,” Marcello said.
“Besides, you’re an adult.” Madison made it sound as though that was not a good thing.
“And you would take us back to those people we don’t like,” Joshua added.
“You’re not going to make us go back, are you?” Madison asked in a worried voice.
“I’m going to make you a chicken sandwich,” Tree said.
“That’s not answering the question.” Marcello, adamant. “My clients have a right to know what’s in store for them.”
“They’re my clients, too, Marcello,” Tree said.
“I wonder about that,” Marcello said.
“If I was going to turn them in, I wouldn’t bother making sandwiches,” Tree said.
The two children looked relieved. Despite himself, so did Marcello.
“Would you like lettuce and tomato?”
“I don’t like tomatoes,” Madison said.
“I don’t like lettuce,” Joshua said.
“I don’t want a sandwich,” Marcello said.
“What do you want?”
“I’m not hungry,” Marcello answered. He was trying to be adult, Tree surmised. Marcello apparently had decided adults would not eat at a time like this.
Tree said to Joshua and Madison
, “What about the two of you? Do you want mayonnaise?”
They both agreed to mayonnaise. Tree got a jar from the refrigerator, spread mayonnaise on the seven-grain bread Freddie had brought home the day before. Presented with the chicken sandwiches, Joshua immediately grabbed his and tore into it, a young wolf at feeding time. Madison, by contrast, was the suspicious gazelle, inspecting her food carefully, wily enough not to dive into anything as potentially dangerous as a sandwich before thoroughly checking it out.
Tree said to Joshua, “Can I see your cellphone?”
Marcello frowned. “Why would you want to see his cellphone? Why wouldn’t you want to see mine?”
“Because I thought there would be less of an argument if I asked to see Josh’s.”
“You can look at mine,” Madison said.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Marcello said.
Nonetheless, Madison fished into her pocket and brought out a small pink device she presented to Tree. “There,” she said.
A Samsung Galaxy wrapped in a protective case. Tree swiped it open and went to contacts. There weren’t many, and nothing listed for Ryder Bodie or Wayne Granger. However, there was a listing for WGE International. Tree pressed it. A local number came up.
“What are you doing?” Madison demanded.
“Seeing how it works,” Tree said.
“No, you’re not,” Madison said angrily. “That’s my phone. I want it back.”
“In a minute,” Tree said.
“Stop it!” Madison’s little voice rose to a shriek.
“What’s wrong?” Marcello demanded. He looked confused.
Tree put the phone to his ear.
Madison screamed.
The phone emitted a fuzzy electronic ring.
Madison yelled, “I want my phone back!” Marcello was on his feet, unsure what he should do.
The phone, ringing. Now Joshua began to look agitated. “You’re not supposed to do that,” he said.
Then the phone stopped ringing. Ryde Bodie said, “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Tree said.
“There you are, buddy. How’d you get this phone?”
“The kids are with me.”
Ryde said, “That’s good. That’s perfect.”
“Where are you?” Tree said.
“The Santini marina. Looking forward to seeing you. Oh, and Tree, do me a favor. Bring the kids along when you come—and don’t forget the money. Otherwise, we’re both dead men.”
35
Beneath a nearly-full moon, the heavy traffic streaming onto Fort Myers Beach delayed Tree crossing San Carlos Bridge. Marcello sat beside Tree. The kids, strapped in the backseat, occupied themselves playing Angry Birds on Freddie’s iPad. On the radio, Elvis sang “A Big Hunk O’ Love.”
Marcello frowned at the radio. “What’s with this guy? He’s supposed to be dead, isn’t he?”
“Gone but not forgotten,” Tree said.
Marcello grimaced. “Old white dude singing to old white dudes. I gotta get ear plugs when I’m in this car, man. It’s embarrassing.”
Tree crested the bridge. Pinpoints of light were displayed against the darkness of the bay. Times Square and Estero Boulevard were a distant glimmer.
Was it bad parenting to bring the children along? Undoubtedly. But what choice did he have? Turn up with the money and the kids, Ryde said. Also, he didn’t want to leave them behind in case the police or the FBI arrived at the door. He knew plenty about bad parenting and the stupid decisions that go along with it; he was something of an expert on the subject. Certainly he was nobody’s role model tonight.
He swung the Beetle past the tourists streaming across Estero bound for the restaurants along Times Square. A band murdered a Credence Clearwater Revival song on the gazebo near the pier. Throngs swarmed either side of Estero, and the traffic was bumper to bumper. Tree strained around to Madison and Joshua, engrossed in Angry Birds. “How are you guys doing?”
No response. “Josh and Madi?”
“It’s Madison,” she called back. “I already told you, I don’t want to be called Madi anymore.”
“Okay, Madison.”
“We’re on level three,” she said distractedly. “There’s no sardine can on this version.”
“No sardine can?” Marcello sounded incredulous. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“It’s true,” Joshua said. “You launch the sardines and that brings out the eagle, but you can’t do it on this.”
“Why isn’t it there?” Tree asked.
“Because you have to pay for that, silly,” Madison announced, dismissively, as if everyone in the world should know that you have to pay for the sardine can that launches the eagle.
Marcello, huddled against the door, glanced at Tree. “You sure you know what you’re doing, man?”
Tree wasn’t at all certain. But he wasn’t going to tell Marcello that. “Just sit tight,” he said. “It’s not far now.”
“What’s not far? Where are we going, anyway?”
“If you’re going to be my partner,” Tree said. “You’ve got to learn not to ask so many questions.”
“I don’t know,” Marcello said. “I’m beginning to wonder about this partner thing.”
The traffic began to thin, the bright lights and the crowds swallowed by the night. Tree picked up speed as he came along Estero to the Santini Marina Plaza, outlined in salmon hues.
Tree turned into the parking lot and brought the Beetle to a stop not far from Unit Five, the former headquarters of WGE International. He turned the motor off and swung around so that he faced Marcello with an eye on Madison and Joshua. They barely acknowledged his presence, so engrossed were they with Angry Birds.
“Okay everyone, I want you to listen to me for a moment.” Tree in stern pater familias voice, the voice his children had resolutely ignored. But he had Marcello’s attention, and even Madison and Joshua raised their heads from the iPad.
“I have to go off for a few minutes, and I want to make sure the three of you stay right here.”
“I should go with you,” Marcello asserted.
“No you shouldn’t, that’s the last thing you should do.” Tree focused sternly on Marcello. “It’s important you stay with Joshua and Madi.”
“Madison! How many times do I have to tell you?” Angry from the back seat.
“Sorry. Madison. But I want everyone to remain here until I get back.”
Madison said, “Can we keep playing our game?”
“Yes, of course. But I don’t want you to leave the car, okay?” Tree looked at Marcello. “For once, I need you to do as you’re told, Marcello.”
“I’m not so good at that,” he said.
“I know. But these are your clients. You need to stay here with them. I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Marcello concerned.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Just…be careful, know what I mean?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Tree said.
“Yeah, right,” Marcello said as he rolled his eyes.
Tree got out and opened the Beetle’s trunk to withdraw the two duffle bags. He lugged the bags across the parking lot. Through the skeletal outline of the boat storage units, Tree could make out el Trueno. He went down the roadway running behind the mall until he reached the rear of Unit Five and the rusting garbage bin that stood next to the unit’s backdoor. He opened the lid and dropped the duffle bags inside.
That done, he made his way back toward the parking lot. Someone came at him out of the shadows. He jerked back in alarm. In the moonlight, Tommy Dobbs’ strained, pale face took on an ominous quality.
Tree said, “Tommy, for God’s sake.” Breathing a sigh of relief.
“Sorry, Mr. C, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I just about had a heart attack. What are you doing here?”
“You keep asking me that question, Mr. C. And I keep giving you the same answer.”<
br />
“Remind me again what it is.”
“Following you.”
“And I keep telling you not to follow me.”
“And I guess I just don’t listen very well.”
“No, you don’t.”
“So what are you doing back here?”
“That’s a very good question, and if I had a good answer, I might be inclined to share it with you. But as it is, I don’t have a good answer, and so I can’t tell you one damned thing, except I need you to leave. Now.”
“Can’t do that, Mr. C.”
“I’m starting to lose patience with you, Tommy,” Tree said.
“It’s Thomas, Mr. C. How many times do I have to remind you?”
“Look, right now I don’t have time for any of this,” Tree said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, failing.
“I think you’re in trouble, and you need help.”
“I’m always in trouble. It’s my default position in life these days. There’s nothing you can do to help except get yourself in trouble, too.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Tree groaned and then had a thought: “You really want to help?”
“Why do you think I followed you?”
“Because you’re under the illusion there’s a story.”
“Yes, well, that, too. But I want to help.”
“You know where I parked the car?”
“I followed you from the house, so yeah, I know.”
“Okay, the kids are with me.”
“I know,” Tommy said. “I saw you put them in the car. I couldn’t believe it.”
“I didn’t have much choice,” Tree said. “I want you to stay with them until I come back.”
“What happens if you don’t come back?”
“I’m coming back,” Tree asserted. “But in case I don’t, drive away and call Special FBI Agent Shawn Lazenby. Here’s my key and here’s his number.” He handed Tommy the car keys and Lazenby’s business card.
“I’m not sure what you’re up to Mr. C. But I take it you’ve got a gun with you.”
“I don’t like guns.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Listen, I’ll be fine. Just go back to the car and stay with the kids.”
Tommy opened his jacket. Tree saw the gun stuck in Tommy’s belt. “What’s that?”
