Long Way Down

by Paul Carr

  Sam glanced in his side mirror and saw the back door of the car open. J.T. got out, squatted next to the car and closed the door with barely a sound. He duck-walked to the rear of the van.

  “I told ‘em I needed to be off for a few days,” Sam said, “but two guys quit and they didn’t have nobody else.”

  “Okay, hold on.” Cicero sauntered to the gate and unlocked it with a key from his pocket. “Tell them I’m not gonna do this again, okay? Next guy delivers pizza here’ll have to bring it to the gate.”

  “Yeah, okay, I’ll tell ‘em. We should have another person in a day or two.”

  Cicero went through the gate to the car window. Sam looked beyond him and saw J.T. pass and enter the building.

  “Okay, gimme the pizza.”

  “Ten-ninety-five,” Sam said.

  The man dug into his pocket and pulled out a ten and a one and handed the bills to Sam.

  “It’s a long way up here, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I ain’t giving you a tip. You didn’t even bring it to the gate like I asked.”

  “I told you, I’m crippled.”

  Cicero sighed and shook his head. “Crippled? I thought you said you hurt your leg yesterday.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “You just said you’re crippled.”

  “Yeah, as of yesterday.”

  Cicero snapped his fingers and held out his hand. “Well gimme the pizza. I ain’t giving you no tip.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Sam glanced at the door of the building. It had been only a minute or so.

  “Did I say, ten-ninety-five? I meant thirteen-ninety-five.”

  Cicero’s face twisted and his upper lip peeled back in a sneer.

  “Hey, fella, I ain’t giving you no fourteen dollars for a pizza.”

  “You sure about that? ‘Cause that’s the price.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. And I’m gonna call the store and tell them what you tried to do to me.”

  “Won’t matter,” Sam said, “the owner’s my uncle.”

  “I don’t care, I’m still calling.”

  “Well, looks like there’s nothing I can do about that,” Sam said.

  Cicero balled his fists and narrowed his eyes.

  “Listen, you gonna give me the pizza or not? If you ain’t, you better give me my money back or I’m gonna drag you out of that car and--”

  “I told you I got a busted leg.”

  “I don’t care, just give me my money.”

  “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? That would mean I came out here for nothing.”

  Cicero reached for the door handle and then looked as if he thought better of it. He stepped back and took a deep breath.

  “On second thought, just get out of here.”

  He started to turn and the door of the building cracked open.

  “Hey, wait,” Sam said.

  Cicero turned back and said, “What?” His voice dripped with venom.

  “I didn’t mean to make you mad. Here, take the pizza. I’ll make the tip on somebody else.”

  Cicero had a confused look on his face, but he glanced at the pizza box, licked his lips and stepped back to the car window. He reached for the pizza, and when he did, J.T. sneaked through the gate and ducked down behind the van. He waited until Cicero started through the gate before he got into the back seat.

  Cicero glanced at the car before going into the building. “Get outta here.”

  Sam put the car in reverse, turned it around and drove away.

  “What did you find?”

  “About what you’d expect,” J.T. said, his voice shaky. “A high-powered computer and some fancy communications equipment in the end of the room nearest the door. On the other end was what looked like a couple of bedrooms and a little kitchen.”

  “Did you install your program?”

  “Sure, piece of cake,”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I don’t know, you just sound a little strange.”

  SAM AND J.T. went straight to the airport and bought tickets for the next flight to Miami, which didn’t leave until 6:20 PM. That gave them a couple of hours to kill. They found a table in the corner of the ice-cold airport lounge and ordered beer.

  Sam leaned back in his chair and glanced at J.T., who had been unusually quiet after leaving the facility.

  “How does this program of yours work?”

  J.T. sighed. “Every time the computer issues a command, the program copies it to my website. If they access a file, it copies that too. All I have to do is access my site and see what’s there, for what it’s worth.”

  The waiter brought the beer and poured it in tall glasses. Sam didn't speak again until he left the table. “What do you mean, ‘for what it’s worth’?”

  “Well, I just don’t think they’re doing anything with offshore bank accounts in that building.”

  “Why do you say that? You weren’t in there long enough to do much on that computer.”

  “Yeah, but it wasn't the computer that tipped me off.”

  “What, then?”

  J.T. took a long swallow of beer, draining half the glass. He leaned his elbows on the table, rubbed his eyes with his fists, and looked up at Sam.

  “There was no ceiling in the building. I could see all the way to the roof, and a panel on the seaward side looked like it could be slid back like a skylight in a car. Only it wasn’t a skylight.”

  “So, what’s the big deal about an opening in the roof.”

  J.T. shook his head and sighed. “That wouldn't be a big deal, but the stuff underneath might be.”

  “Yeah, go on.”

  “It looked a lot like a missile launcher.”

  Chapter 13

  WIND AND rain pelted the plane on the flight home, and Sam and J.T. didn't arrive in Miami until after eight o’clock. They got through Customs without fanfare and went to Sam’s rental car in the covered parking area. Prince Alfred sat next to the driver’s door like a stone sentry.

  “Hey, you have a new friend,” J.T. said.

  “Yeah, he jumped in the car last night before I left and wouldn’t get out. I left him here eating hamburgers.”

  Sam mentioned how the dog had chewed up La Salle’s goons.

  “Man, this is a special dog. Look how his ears stand up and how steady his eyes are. He might have been a show dog or something. He have a name?”

  “I’ve been calling him Prince Alfred, but I don’t know his real name.”

  “Prince Alfred, huh? That fits pretty well.”

  J.T. squatted next to the car and reached out his hand. Prince Alfred glanced at Sam and then went to J.T. as if they were old friends. J.T. opened the passenger door and the dog jumped in and over to the back seat, as if he had done it a hundred times before. Sam started the car and weaved his way out of the airport’s network of loops and access roads. He got onto Highway 836 and pointed the Chevy toward Miami Beach.

  “I bet Prince Alfred is hungry.”

  Sam glanced and saw J.T. rubbing the dog’s ears.

  “Hey, you trying to steal my dog?”

  “Your dog? You just said he’s a stray.”

  Sam grinned. “Yeah, he is, and he probably is hungry.”

  After crossing the MacArthur Causeway, they turned north on Miami Beach and rode to a Burger King drive-through. They ordered three of the largest burgers on the menu and ate them on the way to the Palma Hotel. Prince Alfred jumped out when they arrived and stood by the car.

  “They might have someone waiting here for me,” Sam said, “but it’s been an entire day, so I’m hoping they’ve given up.”

  J.T. shrugged. “I’m not worried about it if you’re not.”

  Sam thought he must be over his scare at the facility on Grand Cayman.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  He retrieved two handguns from the trunk and gave one to J.T. They took the side entrance,
avoiding the lobby, and went up the stairs to the fourth floor. No one waited in the hall, so they went to the room and inserted the card key. It still worked; that meant she hadn’t checked out. Sam nudged the door open with his foot and peered around the corner. The room appeared to be empty. He stepped inside with the 9mm extended and J.T. followed, easing the door closed behind him.

  Sam went into the bathroom and found it empty as well. He put his gun in his pocket, ran his fingers through his hair, and looked around the room.

  “There’s nothing here that belonged to her, but there wouldn’t be, because she didn’t have a bag.”

  The room seemed undisturbed, the bed not slept-in, or re-made since Candi left.

  “Who knew she was here?” J.T. said.

  “No one but me, unless she told someone.”

  Sam went to the phone by the bed and pressed the re-dial button. An internal number popped up on the display and the phone rang twice before a man answered.

  “Concierge, how may I help you?”

  “My wife called you from our room last night and asked for assistance,” Sam said. “I just got back from a trip and seem to have missed her. Do you have a record of the call?”

  “Room 417?”

  “That's right.”

  “Umm, yes sir, we should have a record. Please hold.” He came back after a few seconds and said, “She called at 9:18 and asked if we would buy her some clothes from the hotel store and send them up.”

  “Did you get the things for her?”

  There was a pause on the line. “Why, yes, of course, is there a problem?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “You can preview the charges if you call up your room bill on the TV.”

  “Oh, yeah, I'll do that, thanks.”

  Sam hung up the phone and told J.T. what had happened. He turned on the TV and punched up his bill using the remote control. It indicated purchases of a dress and articles of underwear. The charges would cover three or four outfits in a downtown men's store.

  “She didn't make any other calls, according to this,” Sam said. “Probably used her cell phone to call the guys who picked her up.”

  Sam used the system for express checkout, then put a fifty in an envelope from the desk and sealed it. On the outside he wrote, “For the young man on the night counter,” and left it on the desk. Maybe the kid would get the money. He deserved it for the information he'd given Sam.

  “Let’s get out of here. I paid cash for a week in advance, and the excess will more than pay for the clothes.”

  They went back down the stairs and slipped out the door they had entered.

  ****

  THE VAN sat four parking spots beyond the Chevy. Grimes and Amy, the former Veterinarian’s Assistant, had been waiting twenty minutes for the two men to exit the hotel.

  “There he is,” Grimes said.

  “Who?”

  Grimes didn’t want to say much, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate the fine points of the assassination business. After leaving the vet’s office, they’d driven to a motel where he crashed and lost almost a day in a delirium of painkillers. She played the perfect nurse, so grateful for getting rescued from that pervert vet.

  “His name is Mackenzie, and he owes me something. Start the van and follow their car, but don’t get too close.”

  Amy did as he said, waiting for the Chevy to leave the parking lot before pulling out.

  “I still think I should call the cops about what Dr. Fixx did to me.”

  “We’ve been over that. Like I told you, he’ll make it sound like it was your fault.” If someone hadn’t found the body yet, they soon would and it would be in the news. He hoped that didn’t happen for a while; she was pretty nice to have around, even if she wouldn’t get into the sack with him.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Grimes grinned in the dash lights.

  “Nothing much, just rough him up a little.”

  He actually planned to kill him, but she didn’t need to know that right now. The phone chirped in Grimes’ pocket and he pulled it out and punched the talk button.

  “Yeah.”

  “What is your position?” La Salle.

  “I’m leaving the Palma now, following Mackenzie’s car.”

  “Excellent. Which way is he going? I’ll have a couple of my men head him off.”

  “No way, Jose.”

  “Pardon me?” La Salle’s voice had an edge in it that Grimes didn’t like.

  “I can handle Mackenzie.”

  “Negative. I want him alive. He still has my money, and if anything happens to him I’m going to hold you responsible. Do you understand?”

  “Sorry, we’re breaking up,” Grimes said and terminated the call. Money, schmoney, who did he think he was? Mackenzie had caused Grimes to lose a leg and almost lose an ear. He touched the re-attached ear and shock waves rippled through his head. Not good, he would need to double the antibiotics. Mackenzie would have to die, no doubt about it. If he had the money with him, that would be fine, otherwise, La Salle would have to get his money on his own.

  ****

  DRIVING AWAY from the Palma, Sam punched in the telephone number for Jack Craft’s boat and got no answer. Then he tried the cell number he had found in La Salle’s safe. Same result.

  “Who’re you trying to call?” J.T. asked.

  “Jack Craft.”

  J.T. Grinned. “Good old Jack. What’s he up to these days?”

  Sam brought him up to date on Jack’s involvement, at least what Sam knew of it.

  “Sounds just like something he would do. You think he knows what happened to Candi Moran?”

  “Maybe. I’ll try him again later.”

  Sam drove onto the causeway and headed toward Little Havana where Hector lived.

  He turned into the driveway of the old Spanish cabana. The house was dark. They got out and Sam knocked on the door. After a couple of minutes, a light came on inside and Sam knew Hector peered at them through the peep hole in the door.

  Hector opened the door wearing a pair of dark pants and no shirt. He looked as if he had been sleeping, but not very well, his hair mussed.

  “Sorry to wake you, Hector,” Sam said.

  “No, no. Not a problem. I tried to call you today but you did not answer.”

  Sam nodded, “Yeah, I’ve been away. What’s wrong?”

  Hector stood back and asked them to come inside. They went through a small entry hall to a living room and sat down.

  “Someone broke into my garage and took the Jag.” Hector grimaced and shook his head. “I don’t know what to do when I can’t reach you, and I am really sick about it.”

  Sam shrugged. “Forget it. It didn't belong to me anyway.”

  Candi probably had told La Salle how to find it. Or someone else had stolen it. Happened many times a day in Dade County.

  Hector took a deep breath and let it out. “You mean you are not angry?”

  “Not at all. I just need to talk with you.”

  “Then, by all means, let me get you a drink.” He hurried out of the room, returned a couple of minutes later with three bottles of beer, and eyed Sam. “So, what is wrong?”

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Danilov?”

  Hector’s eyes widened for a split second. “I might have heard that name. Why do you ask?”

  Sam told Hector about Candi Moran and La Salle. “This guy, Danilov, plays into the situation too. My information says he was stationed in Cuba at the Russian embassy, but after the Russians left, he showed up in South Florida. He and La Salle are working together.”

  “But if this Candi Moran called Senor La Salle, why are you worried about her?”

  Sam didn't know the answer to that question himself.

  “I'm not certain she called him. She might have told someone else who sold her out.”

  Hector looked at Sam and smiled for the first time since they had arrived. “Yes, that might have happened.” He frowned and looked as
if deep in thought for a couple of moments. “I have heard of this man; he is a criminal, but I know nothing else about him. My papa might know more. As I told you, he worked in the cane fields as a young man, but he knows many people. His cafe friends know much about what goes on in the old country. Papa listens to the radio in bed until after midnight, sometimes two in the morning, so he will be awake. ”

  Hector stood and ambled out of the room.

  “You think his dad would know anything about this business?” J.T. said. “He must be pretty old, and probably has been here for years.”

  “Worth a try, I suppose.”

  When Hector returned, he handed a piece of notepaper to Sam. “He wouldn’t tell me anything, but he said if you talk to this man you will learn about Senor Danilov.”

  The piece of paper contained the name, Ricardo Miro, and an address Sam didn't recognize.

  “Do you know this place?” Sam asked.

  “No, but the street is not far from here. Papa said he has a nice house.”

  Sam nodded. “Okay. I’ll see what he has to say. Thanks, and please thank your father for me.”

  Hector shook his head and waved his hand. “We are happy to help.”

  Sam and J.T. finished their beer and left.

  J.T. accessed a map program on his computer and found Miro’s address within minutes. It took them awhile longer to get there through the maze of streets and lanes.

  The house sat deep in the lot, obscured by a thicket of palm and banana trees. Sam turned into the driveway and eased the car around the dense growth until the headlights splashed on a Spanish villa with wood beams protruding from the eaves. A nice house, as Hector’s father had said, but it looked as if it had been neglected for the last ten years. Paint peeled from the beams, windows and the front door. The grass had gone to seed long ago, and weeds sprouted through hundreds of cracks in the driveway. No lights glowed inside, and Sam wondered if the house might be abandoned.

  “What do you think?” Sam said.

  “Let’s go in. The old man must have thought this guy is important or he wouldn’t have put you on to him.”

  Sam nodded and turned off the car. They got out and headed toward the front door. Prince Alfred went to the thicket of trees, his nose to the ground.

  Sam shone his light on the entrance and knocked. He also pressed a cracked plastic doorbell switch that looked as if it hadn’t worked in a decade. No one came to the door. He knocked again and waited a couple of minutes, then retrieved his pick and inserted it into the lock. An airplane whined overhead from Miami International and then the noise disappeared, off to the Caribbean or other points south. Sam took a couple minutes to open the loose old door lock. For the time of night it seemed very hot, and Sam wiped perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve. He pulled the 9mm from his pocket and pushed the door open.