Deep Six

by D P Lyle

  “Pancake? Never heard that name before.”

  Pancake nodded. “Me neither.”

  “Your mama must’ve liked breakfast.” She brushed dirt from the knees of her pants.

  “Something like that,” Pancake replied.

  “We’re looking for Raul,” Ray said. “Need to ask him a couple of questions.”

  “You a friend?”

  “No.”

  “A cop?” She propped one fist on her hip and parked the wayward strand behind her ear. Her face glistened with sweat.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me none with that brother of his.”

  “Santiago?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “He’s in jail,” Ray said.

  “Where he belongs. That young man was nothing but trouble. Loud music. That rap crap. Always a bunch of trouble hanging around with him. Frightfully annoying is how I see it.”

  Ray couldn’t suppress his smile. He liked Hattie Shaw. No nonsense. The same way Ray saw most things in life.

  “I don’t think Santiago will be out of jail for a long time,” Ray said.

  “That’s good.” She stretched out her back, bending to one side and then the other. “Getting too old for all this.”

  “What about Raul? He any trouble?”

  “Nope. Nice young man as far as I can tell. Quiet, anyway. And polite.”

  Ray stepped off Raul’s front stoop and walked toward her, stopping at the edge of the yard. Pancake followed.

  “What about visitors?” Ray asked. “He get many?”

  “Not that I know. Not many, anyway. Least not like his brother.”

  “Any idea where I might find him?”

  “Right here if you wait a bit.”

  “Oh?”

  “Every morning he goes down to the beach. One of those coffee shops where he can hook into the Wi-Fi. Saw him head out half hour ago with his laptop.”

  “Any particular coffee shop?”

  “Can’t say. I think he finds the one that ain’t that busy. Leastwise that’s what he said one day.”

  Ray glanced at his watch. “We have another appointment. We’ll drop back by later.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him we came by.”

  “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, ma’am. Like I said, just a few questions.”

  “While ago it was a couple. Now we’re up a few.”

  Ray smiled. She was a pistol and then some. “Simply don’t want to worry him.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t stick my nose in other folks’ business.” She knelt next the flowers, picking up a trowel, stabbing at the loose dirt. “Besides, I might not see him. Once I get this bunch in the ground I’m gonna get me some sweet tea and take a nap. Get to the rest of it later when it cools off.”

  Ray left it at that.

  Next stop, the tallest building in downtown Mobile where the office of George Rose occupied what Ray estimated was about a third of the top floor. Lots of glass, clear views out over the bay.

  The visit was brief and to Ray’s mind more or less cleared Rose of any involvement in Barbara Plummer’s murder, or any plan to tweak Walter. According to Rose, the twelve-million-dollar wrongful death settlement Walter won against him was later reduced to just under seven, his insurance taking the big hit, costing him only in the low seven figures. From the look of his plush office, something Rose could handle.

  According to Rose, the young lady had indeed fallen off his boat and drowned, during a drunken party. An accident that could have been prevented by “a dash of common sense.” Seems Rose was away and wasn’t on the boat that night. His twenty-year-old son Kyle had taken the eighty-foot vessel out. Without permission but with a bunch of his “reprobate” friends. After that, the boat was off-limits. Rose even sold it, downsizing to only fifty feet. Kyle then saw the “wisdom of a stint in the military.” Seemed to be doing fine “getting the shit shook out of his brain.”

  Back to Raul’s.

  Hattie Shaw was nowhere to be seen. Probably into her sweet tea and nap.

  Raul’s place now showed signs of life. The front door stood open, the entry covered by a screen door. A box fan churned in an adjacent window, drawing in the cooler air that gathered beneath a large hackberry tree. Ray rapped on the screen door frame. No response so he rapped again. The sound of a toilet flushing, down a hallway that led straightaway, and then Raul appeared, heading their way, zipping his fly.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, his English clear, despite his thick accent.

  “I’m Ray. This is Pancake.”

  “Pancake? What kind of name’s that?”

  “Mine,” Pancake said.

  Raul apparently didn’t have a comeback for that.

  “Need to ask a couple of questions,” Ray said. “About Walter Horton.”

  His eyes narrowed and his body seemed to slide back a bit. “You a cop?”

  Ray shook his head. “No.”

  “Then I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “No, you don’t.” Ray smiled. “But it’d probably help both of us if you did.”

  “That was a long time ago. I talked to the cops then. I told them I was just angry about him not getting my brother off.”

  “Houdini couldn’t have gotten your brother off, Raul. He did blow away a dude in broad daylight in front of a bunch of witnesses.”

  “So? Don’t mean nothing. That shit-for-brains attorney gets people off all the time. White people, anyway.”

  “So you still have a hard-on for Walter?”

  “Es verdad.”

  “You know anything about a murder out on The Point the other night?”

  Now his shoulders squared and his chin came up. “What murder?”

  “Woman killed. Near Walter’s place.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  “I see.”

  Raul adopted a defiant stance, eyes leveled at Ray, fists balled at his side. “What’s some white woman getting killed have to do with me?”

  “How’d you know it was a white woman?”

  His gaze darted right and then left and then back to Ray. “You said The Point. That’s the only kind of woman that lives out there.”

  True. More or less.

  “So you don’t know anything about it?” Ray asked.

  “Just what was on television.”

  “Where were you Tuesday night? Say around midnight or so?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “You with anyone that night? Someone who can alibi for you?”

  “I don’t need an alibi.” He looked at Pancake. “But if I did I could round up all the alibis I needed.” He twisted his neck one way and then the other. “But I don’t need none and I don’t know anything about what goes on out there in that neighborhood.”

  Ray stared at him but said nothing. Be cool. Let the pressure rise.

  “Maybe Walter killed her,” Raul said. “You say he lives out there. Wouldn’t surprise me if he did.”

  “Maybe he did. But I’d suspect you’ll need an alibi anyway.”

  “Por qué?”

  “I’m sure the cops will pay you a visit.”

  “Why would they want to talk to me?”

  Ray sensed a rising note of tension in his voice.

  “They’re investigating a homicide. Talking to suspects is what they do.”

  “I’m not a suspect.” Raul’s eyes grew dark and angry. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Ray shrugged.

  Raul again flicked his gaze right and then left and finally back to Ray. “Okay. I was at Pedro’s. With about a hundred other people.”

  Pedro’s Surfside Bar was a dingy dive a couple of miles up the beach. The clientele decidedly blue collar. Construction workers, yardmen, day laborers, mostly Hispanic. The kind of place where the beer was cold and fights common. Easy to pick up a knife wound or two if y
ou said the wrong thing or looked the wrong way or hit on the wrong woman.

  “We’ll check it out,” Pancake said.

  “You do that. Now I suggest you guys leave or I’ll call the cops myself.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Raul looked as if he’d been slapped in the face. Obviously not the answer he expected. Of course, Ray knew calling the cops wasn’t an option for Raul.

  Raul, apparently out of words, slammed the door. The lock clicked.

  Ray and Pancake retreated to the car and cranked it up, the blast from the AC welcome.

  “He knows something,” Pancake said.

  “Sure does. The question is what?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CARLOS FERNANDEZ WATCHED the drama unfold while squatting behind the bank of rhododendrons that insulated Raul’s yard from his neighbors. He had cruised by earlier, just as two men walked up Raul’s walkway. One lean and fit with short grayish hair, the other a massive dude with bright red hair. Not knowing who they were, and more importantly not wanting to be seen, he had parked Darnell’s Honda on a side street a half block away. He then scurried through the shadows of the hackberries, Palmettos, and pines that flanked the rear alley and shaded the neighbor’s property before settling behind the shrubs.

  He couldn’t hear what was said, but since Raul left them on the porch, not inviting them in, he knew they weren’t friends. And from the looks of the two guys, they were all business. Especially the older one. Definitely the one in charge.

  He pulled the Smith & Wesson .357 from his back pocket, and held it tightly against his haunch as he watched. Last thing he needed right now was a pair of civilians mucking this up. He had a job to do. Borkov expected it. He needed to tie up a loose end as Borkov had put it. Raul was definitely a loose end. And a screwup. And Borkov wouldn’t tolerate any more screwups. It was not in his nature.

  Carlos also knew that leaving and coming back later wasn’t an option. He was on a short time leash. He only had thirty minutes until his ride met him at the Chevron three blocks from where he squatted. How long could he wait?

  He considered moving up behind the two. Take them out, deal with Raul, and run like hell. But that would be messy at best. Not to mention the distinct possibility of attracting unwanted attention in such a cramped neighborhood.

  A decision he didn’t have to make as the door slammed, leaving the two men standing on the porch. They climbed in their car and sat talking for a couple of minutes while examining the house. The car cranked to life and they drove away.

  Raul’s back door was unlocked. Carlos stepped into the kitchen, gun in hand. Raul entered from the dining area and jerked to a stop.

  “Jesus, Carlos,” he said. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry, man.”

  Now Raul focused on the gun. “What’s that for?”

  “Thought those two dudes might be trouble.”

  “I got rid of them.”

  Carlos stuffed the gun into his belt. “Who were they?”

  “I don’t know. They weren’t cops, if that’s what you’re thinking. At least they said they weren’t.”

  “And cops never lie? Right?”

  “All I know is that they asked about the woman out on The Point.”

  “And you said what?”

  “That I didn’t know nothing about it.”

  Carlos nodded. “How’d they find out about you?”

  “All that crap with Walter Horton and my brother. They said Walter lives near that lady. The one out on The Point.”

  “And you threatened Walter.” Carlos shook his head. “That was a bad move, man.”

  “I know, but Walter fucked over my brother. I had to do something.”

  “But that wasn’t cool,” Carlos said. “And the boss isn’t happy about it.”

  “I bet he’s happy I took care of the woman for him, though?”

  Carlos shrugged. “Actually, you got someone else to do it.”

  Raul laughed. “Why get my hands bloody when I don’t have to?”

  “Should’ve done it yourself.”

  “I’m just trying to build my own crew. Get me some guys I can depend on. Guys who have blood on their hands and can’t turn on me.”

  “And you think those two were a wise choice?”

  “Why are you coming on all aggro, dude? I got the job done.” When Carlos didn’t respond, he continued. “Besides, I’m paying them out of my cut, so no problem.”

  “The boss doesn’t like folks altering the setup without him knowing.”

  “I’ll smooth it. You got my money?”

  “In the car.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Get you out of here.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Pack your shit and let’s hit it.” Carlos looked around. “You got any weapons or drugs here?”

  “My gun’s in the back. And I got a little meth. Want to tune up before we hit the road?”

  “No time. Grab your shit.”

  Carlos could hear Raul opening and closing drawers, talking to himself. He walked that way, finding Raul in the front bedroom. Raul had packed his entire life in a small rolling suitcase and a canvas tote, his laptop jutting at an angle from the unzipped top.

  “That’s it,” Raul said. “Let’s get going.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What?” Raul asked.

  “This.”

  Raul’s eyes widened and he raised his hands as Carlos leveled his .357 at him.

  The bullet punched a small round hole in Raul’s forehead and carried blood and brain and skull bits out of a gaping wound in the back, splattering the bed and wall. Raul dropped like the sack of shit he was.

  Carlos quickly searched the house, looking for anything that shouldn’t be found. Closets, drawers, even the fridge turned up nothing. He slid Raul’s wallet from his back pocket and stuffed that and the handgun that lay on the bedside table into the tote. He grabbed the suitcase and the bag and eased out the back door.

  Loose end tied.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE SEA WITCH was beyond magnificent. Darnell had never seen anything like it. Huge, plush, including the side-by-side staterooms where Joe Zuma had settled him and Darrell. Better than any hotel Darnell had ever seen. And he’d actually stayed at the Ritz Carlton down in Naples. Talk about plush. But it couldn’t hold a candle to this. Maybe, just maybe, Darrell was right. Could this really be what their new life would be like? More perks than the phone store for sure.

  Since the launch ride from the beach out to the Sea Witch only took twenty minutes, they had reached the yacht well before sunup. During the trip, Darrell had tried to engage Joe Zuma and Frank Boyd, find out what was what, but neither of the men had much to say. Which of course led Darrell to press them for answers. He asked why everything was some big secret. Why they had to meet on a beach and sneak out to the boss man’s yacht in the middle of the night. Don’t tell no one about it. Why was that, Darrell wanted to know.

  Sometimes Darnell didn’t understand his brother. Make that most times. Darrell’s brain seemed to run off the tracks with disturbing regularity. He never saw the obvious, living inside his own little screwed-up world. Not that Darnell didn’t have the same questions, he simply didn’t think asking these two was the wisest move.

  These two dudes weren’t going to say shit about shit. Darnell was sure of that. He suspected the boss man didn’t have people around who talked, or who told secrets. But Darrell kept quizzing them until Zuma finally said, “You ask too many questions.”

  Darrell apparently missed the irritation building in Zuma’s voice and went on with his BS. “That’s how you find out stuff. Asking questions. Everybody knows that.”

  Darrell also missed the look that Zuma and Boyd exchanged, Zuma finally saying, “Chill out. Mr. Borkov’ll tell you everything later.”

  Thankfully, that shut Darrell up for the final leg of the trip.

  Once they climbed from
the launch onto the deck of the Sea Witch, Zuma hadn’t shown them around or anything. Like he wanted to be rid of them. Didn’t want to babysit. Merely took them down some stairs, along a hallway lined with rich wood and even richer works of art, to their staterooms, telling them to settle in and meet in the dining area around eight for breakfast. And not to leave their rooms, not to wander around, not to do shit until then.

  Breakfast took place around a large, oval, burled table that sat at one end of an expansive living/dining area. Encased in dark, rich wood, thick cut carpeting, curtained windows, and even more art work, it was all class. Juice in wine glasses; bacon and cheese frittata, fruit, and croissants on china; aromatic coffee in matching cups. Better than the Ritz was Darrell’s take on it, and he said so.

  The brothers ate alone, a single crew member dressed in a crisp white uniform serving them, ferrying away dirty dishes, and constantly refilling their coffee cups. He said little, answering Darrell’s questions simply, and vaguely. Darnell figured everyone in Borkov’s world was tight-lipped.

  By ten, Darnell and Darrell sat in lounge chairs on the aft main deck, protected from the sun by the overhanging roof, where a long-bladed white ceiling fan stirred the air. Zuma and Boyd were nowhere to be seen.

  “Want some?” Darrell asked, pulling his meth vial and the stub of a plastic straw from his pocket.

  “You think that’s a good idea? Here?”

  “I think it’s a perfect idea.” He carefully tapped out two fuzzy rails on the teakwood table between the two chairs, bent over, and snorted one line. He rubbed his nose with the heel of one hand and then looked at Darnell. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He shrugged, did the other line, and returned the vial and straw to his pocket.

  A woman walked out on the deck. And what a woman. Young, tight, long dark hair, long legs, white bikini beneath a dark blue hooded jacket, open to reveal a flat, tanned belly. Darnell was speechless. Darrell wasn’t. He never was.

  “And who are you?” Darrell asked.

  “Grace.” She curled on another lounge chair across from them and removed her designer sunglasses, settling them on the teak table next to her. “You guys must be the new guests I heard about.”

  Darrell and Darnell introduced themselves.