Long Way Down

by Paul Carr

  Sam grinned. “Yeah, I know.”

  A woman came out the front door of the house and walked to her car. Sam thought he remembered Candi saying her name was Miranda. The Ford started down the drive toward the gate and Sam eased out into the traffic. He turned into the entrance and braked as she stopped at the street, waiting for traffic to pass, their cars only a few feet apart.

  “Miranda.” It came out louder than intended.

  She turned and stared through the open window at him and J.T., her eyes wide.

  “Candi Moran said you can be trusted.” She hadn’t actually said that, but she probably meant to.

  Miranda hesitated, and she had the look on her face that people get when they’re trying to decide whether or not to do something they really don’t want to do. “Is something wrong with Miss Candi?” She spoke with a Spanish accent.

  “I think she’s in danger, and the man who lives here is responsible. Do you know where he is?”

  Miranda shook her head. “No, Senor. I know nothing of what he does or where he goes.”

  “If I don’t find her, something bad might happen. Anything you can tell me--”

  “I am sorry, I do not know.” She faced forward and pressed the accelerator. The Ford’s front tires spun on the driveway, made a screeching noise, and it sped out into the traffic.

  “We could follow her,” J.T. said.

  “I don’t think it would do any good. She probably told the truth.”

  SAM DROVE to a bank and rented a safety deposit box large enough for the money and Miro’s documents. He kept out a couple thousand dollars for expenses and told J.T. what he had done when he got back to the car.

  “If something happens to me, go back and clean out the box.” Sam showed him the bank key and stuck it under the edge of the Chevy’s carpet below the dash.

  THE AIR strip lay on the fringes of the Everglades. They passed a lot of farm country, but much of it looked as if it hadn’t been cultivated in awhile, still parched from the previous year’s drought. The hangar appeared a few hundred feet ahead and Sam pulled over to the side of the road for J.T. to climb into the back seat. Prince Alfred raised an eyebrow when J.T. folded his long legs and squeezed into the space on the floor.

  Sam pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in J.T.’s number. The phone chirped in the back seat and J.T. answered. Sam turned on the speaker, put the phone in his shirt pocket, leaving the connection open, and drove down the highway toward the dilapidated metal hangar. He turned in and followed a shell-and-gravel driveway to a tall steel fence where a gate stood open. A sign painted on the hangar advertised “CROP DUSTING” in big, peeling, blue letters, and a black Corvette sat inside the fence at the far corner of the hangar closest to the flight line. There didn’t seem to be any other vehicles in sight.

  Sam lowered the windows and turned off the engine. He put his 9mm into his pants pocket, pulled his shirt over the butt of the stock, and got out into the heat. Just a few feet away from the gate, an old air conditioner groaned and rattled the sheet metal wall of the hangar. The sun bore down overhead and Sam felt perspiration beading under his shirt and stinging his wound. Prince Alfred jumped out behind him, walked to a shady spot next to a bush and lay down. Sam put his hand on the gun in his pocket and walked through the gate.

  He strode past a closed side door to the front of the hangar. It stood wide open and a late model twin-engine airplane sat inside. No one worked around the plane, but Sam saw an office with a large window at the rear of the building. A slim man wearing a white tee shirt and khaki pants sat at a desk inside the office reading a paperback book. The man saw Sam and laid the book on the desk with the pages down. He stood, opened a door and sauntered out toward Sam.

  “Can I help you?” His eyes shone red and his hands shook like someone who drank too much.

  “You Randy?”

  The man looked beyond Sam and then around the hangar. He glanced at Sam’s hand on the gun.

  “Depends. Who’s asking?”

  “A friend of Candi Moran. I think she’s with La Salle, and Marcus said you might know where they went.”

  “Why are you looking for her?”

  “He tried to kill her and he might do it again.”

  Randy nodded. “You alone?”

  “Yes.”

  He studied Sam’s face for several seconds and then turned and nodded toward the rear of the hangar.

  “Let’s go back to the office. It’s air conditioned.”

  Sam followed him into the small room and closed the door behind him. Randy motioned for Sam to sit in front of the desk, an area so small Sam had to turn the chair sideways to sit down. The old air conditioner leaked cool air, but the smell of day-old rum hung there like the last drunk at the party.

  “So, what’s this business about Candi?”

  “You know her?”

  “Sure, she’s quite a dish.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  Randy looked out the picture window behind Sam and shrugged.

  “Maybe I do.”

  Sam heard a dog barking, and it took him a full second to realize the sound came from his shirt pocket.

  Randy squinted his eyes and cocked his head to the side. “What’s that noise?”

  Sam removed the phone from his pocket and turned off the speaker.

  “Just my cell phone. That’s the way it rings.”

  “Your phone barks?”

  “Yeah. Pretty catchy, huh?”

  Sam feigned pressing the answer button and put the phone to his ear.

  “Hello,” Sam said.

  J.T.’s voice came on the line, whispering.

  “Two guys just drove up in a Cadillac and are getting out. The dog’s going crazy.”

  “Okay, do your thing.”

  Sam put the phone in his pocket and looked at Randy.

  “You expecting anyone?” Sam said.

  “No, why?”

  “Two guys are outside, so I can only assume they’re here to see me. You have a back door out of here?”

  Randy shook his head.

  Sam pulled the gun from his pocket and pointed it at him. “Too bad.”

  Randy’s eyes bulged and the left side of his face twitched. “Don’t kill me, man. I didn’t have anything to do with this.” He pushed his chair back and it banged against the wall, as if that extra distance might get him out of range of a bullet.

  Sam motioned with the gun.

  “Get out there and meet them at the door on the side. I’ll be right behind you, so don’t try to tip them off.”

  Randy nodded and walked out of the office toward the door.

  “Open it.” Sam stood against the wall next to the door.

  Randy’s hand shook when he twisted the knob. The door sprang open and two men pushed through, the same men who had tried to take Sam from Jack Craft’s car at the night club: Slick and Spike.

  “Where is he, Randy?” Slick said.

  “Right here,” Sam said, clicking the hammer on his gun. “Lay your guns on the floor.”

  Slick turned, pointed his gun at Sam and grinned.

  “I think you’re outnumbered, pal,” Slick said.

  J.T. stepped through the door and put his 9mm to the back of Spike’s head. “You heard him. Put your weapons down.”

  They stood frozen for several seconds, obviously calculating the odds of walking out alive if they refused. Then the man with the gun to his head spoke. “Okay, I’m laying it down. You too, Gino.”

  Sam heard something move behind him and turned. The big end of a wooden crutch came around like the blade of a ceiling fan and struck him on the side of the head. J.T. yelled something he didn’t understand, and Prince Alfred growled and leapt in slow motion toward the crutch wielder. Sam’s head buzzed like a hornet’s nest and everything in the hangar turned sideways as he descended to the concrete floor. He saw his reflection in the sheen of Slick’s expensive Italian shoes, and then the buzzing stopped.

&nbs
p; Chapter 15

  SAM AWOKE to a throbbing headache and the drone of airplane engines in flight. He turned to see J.T. in the seat beside him looking at the clouds through the airplane window. The sun found a hole in the white fluff and cut into his eyes like a knife.

  “So, Sleeping Beauty awakes.” The voice came from across the aisle. Grimes. Blood and bite marks covered his face, and he held a gun pointed at Sam.

  “What happened to you?” Sam said.

  “A wild animal attacked me. You know a lot about wild animals, don’t you, Mackenzie?”

  Sam remembered the scene in the hangar right before losing consciousness. Prince Alfred must have chewed him up pretty well. Sam rubbed his eyes. “You didn’t hurt the dog, did you?”

  Grimes snorted a laugh and looked away.

  “He’s okay,” J.T. said. “Grimes smacked him pretty hard, but a woman with Grimes said she works for a vet. She took him with her and said she would fix him up.”

  Sam looked behind him. Spike and Slick sat slumped in their seats, taking a snooze. There probably wouldn’t be a better time than the present to take these guys, but Grimes had a gun, and Sam’s head felt like it might fall off if he stood up.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll know soon enough,” Grimes said.

  J.T. touched Sam on the arm and Sam turned and looked at him.

  “It looks like we’re flying southeast,” J.T. said, his voice a whisper.

  “How long have we been gone?”

  “Going on three hours. We dusted the treetops before leaving Florida, evading the FAA. Hard to tell where we are now, but I’m guessing somewhere over the Virgin Islands. I think we just passed St. Thomas.”

  They weren’t headed for Grand Cayman unless Randy had a creative way of getting there. Sam closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep again, waking when the plane’s flaps dropped. He unbuckled his seat belt, leaned over to the window, and saw land about a mile away.

  “Hey, back in your seat.” Grimes waved the gun and Sam sat down, closed his eyes, and wished the pounding in his head would stop.

  The plane landed on a rough runway and taxied for several minutes before stopping. Randy shut down the engines and Slick and Spike got out of their seats.

  “Okay, we’ll take it from here,” Slick said.

  Grimes nodded and stuck his gun into a shoulder holster. The hatch opened and someone rolled a ladder up to it for them to deplane. Spike went down the aisle and out, and Slick stayed behind.

  “Let’s go,” Slick said over Sam’s shoulder.

  Sam and J.T. got out of their seats and eased over to the hatch and down the ladder. The runway, paved with sand and gravel, stretched long and wide, as if built for large planes, possibly jets. A construction trailer stood on blocks about a hundred feet away, and about a dozen men worked on the metal skeleton of what might be a future air terminal. Palms, palmetto and pines surrounded the entire area.

  A car, with a man in the driver’s seat, sat about twenty feet from the plane.

  “Get in the back,” Spike said. They did as they were told and Spike got in with them. Slick took the front seat. The driver headed down a shiny new road cut through the foliage. Recently paved and smelling of tar, it seemed a callous invasion of the ancient jungle. Sam glanced back and saw Grimes hopping down the ladder one step at a time while supporting himself with the handrails. A man wearing a short sleeved jumpsuit stood at the bottom holding his crutches. Sam touched the spot where the crutch had struck his head and winced.

  Despite the air conditioner blowing cool air, the car felt warm, and no one spoke for the next five minutes as the road curved toward the east. The landscape opened to a wide expanse of lawn and gardens, and the road surface changed into fine brown pebbles, inlaid down the center with tan circles, each containing a diamond, club, spade or heart. They passed an entranceway sculpted from coral and surrounded by royal palms and blooming shrubs. An elegant sign the color of mahogany contained the words WELCOME TO NEW MIAMI. A structure rose in the distance. It looked like a hotel, and the sea beyond was cool and inviting, glints of brilliance bouncing off its caps from the sun. A sailboat floated offshore, seemingly still and perfect, lending the appearance of a movie set. Sam wished he could board that perfect boat and sail somewhere other than this place.

  The hotel, the color of oxidized copper, had been built in the shape of a treasure chest, about twenty stories high. A giant sculpture of a muscle-bound man stood out front, at least half as tall as the building. He looked a lot like Hercules, except he had one large eye in the center of his forehead. A Cyclops. Rich in detail, the sculpture might have been a work of art in another era.

  They rode between the Cyclops’ feet, which seemed as large as compact cars, to the hotel entrance. The car stopped and Spike got out and pointed his gun at Sam. “Okay, out.”

  They exited and strode through the door. The lobby, tiled with marble the color of coral, contained no furniture. A mosaic of multi-colored tiles in the shape of a large eye had been laid at its center.

  Spike told them to follow him.

  “And stay off the eye,” Slick said, “the cement ain’t cured yet.”

  Slick stuck a card key into a slot on the wall next to the elevator. A green light flashed and the doors opened. They stepped inside, ascended to the penthouse, and the elevator opened to a large apartment with glass on the back side overlooking the sea. The furniture looked a lot like that from La Salle’s house on Miami Beach, and Sam recognized a couple of paintings he had seen there.

  “Stay with these guys and I’ll go talk to the boss,” Slick said. Spike nodded and told Sam and J.T. to sit on the sofa.

  Slick returned in a couple of minutes.

  “He wants to see you, Mackenzie,” Slick said and turned to Spike. “Take this other clown downstairs and lock him in the money room.”

  J.T. raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  They might regret putting him there.

  Slick took Sam down a hall and opened the door to a dojo, a large, rectangular room with a pad on the floor. He told Sam to remove his shoes before going in. La Salle and a small Asian man stood facing each other, barefoot and wearing white uniforms with black belts. The small man had to be the teacher, the Sensei.

  La Salle jumped back into a fighting position and yelled. The Sensei, fast as lightning, punched his fist toward La Salle’s face. La Salle jerked his head back out of range and then blocked a front kick to his abdomen and a spinning round-house kick to the face, stepping back with each. He returned with a side kick to the face and the Sensei ducked below it and dropped to the pad. With La Salle’s massive right leg still airborne, the Sensei kicked behind his left knee and the big man’s leg buckled, dropping him to a crouch. The Sensei sprang to his feet and La Salle spun and drove his fist into the Sensei’s lower back. Sam had never seen anyone that large move so fast. A grimace of pain and confusion pinched at the Sensei’s face as he stumbled sideways.

  La Salle glanced at Sam and Slick and narrowed his eyes. Dirty fighting, and the small man probably wouldn’t forget it. La Salle climbed to his feet and spoke in a low voice. The Sensei nodded, then smiled wanly and padded toward the door. He bowed his head, almost imperceptibly, as he passed Sam and said, “You are the one,” his voice a whisper.

  Slick waited until he got out of earshot and said, “What did he say?”

  Sam shrugged and said, “I don’t know.” He had heard the words, but he really didn’t know what the man meant.

  La Salle, his long hair dripping with sweat, walked over and told Slick to wait outside. “So, the thief is brought to justice.” La Salle scanned the floor as he spoke, as if looking for something. Finally, he reached down, picked up a rubber band and gathered his hair into a pony tail.

  Sam said nothing.

  “Do you still have my money?”

  “Some of it.”

  La Salle smiled and shook his head.

  “Not very smart, you know. And I can’t le
t you get away with it.”

  La Salle towered over Sam by at least six inches.

  “Yeah, I figured as much.”

  La Salle wiped his forehead with his uniform sleeve.

  “Where is the money now?”

  “Sorry, you won’t get it back unless you let Candi go.”

  “Candi?” La Salle said. “I don’t think you understand.”

  “How’s that?”

  La Salle turned and motioned for Sam to follow him.

  They went to the far wall and La Salle drew back a heavy drape to reveal a wall of glass similar to that in the living room. A patio outside seemed to stand at the edge of the Caribbean.

  “Have a look for yourself.”

  Candi Moran lay on the patio in a lounge chair, face down, wearing a white bikini, the wound in her back almost healed.

  “Come close. I want her to see you.”

  Sam sidled up to the window. She certainly didn’t look like someone in distress. La Salle tapped on the glass a couple of times and Candi turned on her side and rose to an elbow. Her eyes looked sleepy. Looking straight at Sam, she made a face and waved her hand as if to say, Leave me alone. She turned and lay back down on the lounge chair.

  Candi seemed to be there of her own free will. At least La Salle wanted Sam to believe that and had painted a pretty convincing picture. But the glass might be one-way, which Candi couldn’t see through.

  La Salle had tried to kill her, and she had a bullet wound to show for it. She wouldn’t just let bygones be bygones and move in with him. But then, Sam wondered if he could be objective about a woman so attractive to him. And something in his head flashed red at the possibility that she might be harmed again.

  Sam ran his fingers through his hair and turned to La Salle.

  “I want to talk to her.”

  La Salle smiled and seemed about to speak, but Sam noticed a narrowing of his eyes, a warning, and lunged away at the same instant La Salle threw his fist at Sam’s face. The fist still connected with his cheek. Sam shook his head, turned inside La Salle’s next punch and slammed his fist into La Salle’s nose. La Salle’s head rocked back, and a string of blood splattered the glass. He wiped his nose and grinned. Sam hit him in the stomach and it was like punching a sack of cement. The big man only flinched, apparently feeling little pain, so Sam kicked at La Salle’s midsection. La Salle blocked the kick, returning one of his own that doubled Sam over, then spun in the air, seeming as light as a feather, and delivered a roundhouse kick to Sam’s head. Sam felt a buzz behind his eyes and the room started to spin. He staggered back and shook his head. La Salle back-fisted him to the temple. Sam fell to the pad and lay still for what seemed like a long time, his head in a spin. He opened his eyes and saw La Salle prancing back and forth, flexing his fists, a wild look on his face.