by J. A. Marley
As they walked, the atmosphere between the Cardells changed. Vincent thought the mood could match that Tennessee air he had just been recalling.
Neither he nor his wife said a word until they were both in the back of the black limo that was waiting for them.
Ms Kravitz rode up front with the driver, and, once settled in their seats, June made sure the divide between them and the others was fully closed before she spoke. “Are we any closer?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“What do you suggest we do next? What are you going to do? Kill all of them? Torture them until someone owns up out of sheer agony? I can’t believe where we are with this.”
“We’ve grown faster than I envisioned. What were we supposed to do? We needed people.”
“We? We? If you had listened to me, we wouldn’t have that Zedillo woman asking the kinds of questions you cannot afford to answer. These people do not fuck around. Someone has talked. Someone you brought in, someone we couldn’t trust.”
“Stop panicking, June. It is time for calm and collected thinking. We can sort this.”
“No, Vince, you sort it… and if you can’t, if you don’t, I will.”
June sat further back in her leather seat, turning away from her husband as she did so. She thought she would need a divine miracle if she were to walk away from all of this with a life she could enjoy, on terms that she would set.
5
Fisher of Men
“How long yo’ had this bidness?”
Simeon Duvall was staring at Danny Felix whilst peeling the label off his numbingly cold beer bottle. It was his third, and he had a very pleasant buzz going. The sunshine of the Gulf of Mexico combined with the gentle sway of the boat was helping.
“A little over a year now. It serves me very well.” Danny was sitting on the gunwale of his little fishing cruiser. He had a Dr Pepper in his hand, some crushed ice flowed down the side of the plastic bottle.
“A whole damn year? I musta bin one of yo’ first customers! I wouldn’t put yo’ down as a fisherman, Danny. You seem more of a…” Simeon circled the top of his bottle in the air as he searched for the right word. “… an urban type. Yo’ look and move like you got plenty o’ street smarts.”
Danny chuckled. It amazed him how, no matter how long you spent not talking about yourself, people sooner or later lost their patience and started digging. “Simeon, do I look like a city wideboy? I don’t even have a pair of proper shoes, mate.”
At just under six feet, Simeon was all muscle. His face was round and handsome, quick to smile, even quicker to light up with laughter.
He ran his hand over his close-cropped hair and slapped his thigh. “You’re a mystery. That English accent. The way yo’ appeared out of nowhere. That iddy biddy advert in The Key West Citizen and the hand-painted sign on the roadside the only proof yo’ exist... yo’ don’t even have one o’ dem cell phones, brother.”
“You never seen a drop-out before? Someone who didn’t like being around too many people all at the same time? This is the Florida Keys…”
Simeon sat back in the pedestal chair. Danny could see he was starting to think about casting out into the blue water again, see if he could get a bite. So far, the fish had been pretty shy.
“If I were a gambling dude… which I am not, I would say yo’ ex-military. Or a cop of some kind. Something that requires cojones.”
Danny stared out across the sea, taking a sip of his drink, hoping nonchalance would close this avenue of conversation down.
“You look to be fit. Dropouts normally have a little beer baby goin’ on. Usually a hint o’ the bong water about them. Yo’? Not so much, Brother…”
Simeon’s arms glistened and flexed as he swung his fishing rod high over his head, flicking it at exactly the right moment, the bait and lure arcing away from the boat, the sun glinting off the end.
Danny went on the offensive. “I’d say you know more about me than I do about you. I don’t even know what you do for a living.”
“Go ahead, brother. Take a swing o’ the bat. What is my current occu-pa-tion?”
“Jesus… I wouldn’t know where to begin, guv.”
“Yo’ made a damn good start… better than yo’ think.”
Danny cocked an eyebrow at him. “That’s cryptic…”
“Yo’ got my boss’s name right.”
Danny wasn’t often surprised. “You work for Jesus? You’re some kind of… pastor?”
“A priest… I’m a priest…”
Danny laughed. He might have guessed Simeon was an engineer or a lawyer. Someone with an education, a little money. But a priest? Never. “A fisher of men… a holy Joe. I could have been guessing forever. I wouldn’t have had a Scooby.”
“What yo’ say? Scooby? You’ve gone all limey on my ass.”
“I wouldn’t have had a clue. Scooby Doo… clue. So, you say mass, give out the last rites, communion… all that stuff.”
“A priest who doesn’t wouldn’t be much use now, would he? Yes, I do all those things. I attend to the needs of my flock. I even hear confession. How’d you like a go at that? Got a few stories to tell? A few little secrets you need ironing out, you can talk to me, and we can get God to let things slide, tidy that soul of yours up a little. What yo’ say?”
Danny was standing now, hands out, pushing an imaginary wall away from his chest. “Whoa. No offense. But I’ve seen, heard and felt enough that was done in the name of some version of God, Gaia, Allah and whoever else to know that I don’t trust any of it.”
“So, I guess that makes us just fishing buddies. We go back to being mysteries to each other. Shame, shame, I was beginning to like yo’.” Simeon sighed and Danny realised, for the first time, that he liked the man, and the respect was obviously mutual and growing.
“Fishing buddies works for me, mate.”
Simeon’s smile returned. “At the very least, that’s a start and… wooooo, hold on… I gotta bite…” And suddenly, his line was taut, and the reel was racing.
Danny was happy for the distraction.
“What time you get finished up last night, sugar tits?”
Amparo let the clipboard she was holding slowly drop to her side. She had only just checked in for her shift, and already, it felt like it was going to be a long day. Starting with the usual crossing of swords with Annie the Dispatcher. She was about to lecture her, but Annie thrust a steaming cup of coffee under her nose.
Annie Drummond just didn’t add up. White-haired, a grandmother, a volunteer retiree, a heart of gold, but a mouth that constantly swore like a chain gang boss.
“It was gone one a.m., Annie. And thank you, how are you doing today?”
“Oh, ya know. My bladder infection’s flared up again, so I’m pissing like a racehorse, and my knees tremble, even when they’re not getting any action. Growing old sucks donkey dick.”
Amparo’s eyes shut as soon as she heard the word “bladder.” She dropped her voice. “You know, Annie… we really need to work on your language skills a little here…”
“Hey, I came down here from New Jersey for the sun, not to be polite… those girls that came in from Founders Park. Any of that make any sense in the end? It sounded like Krusty the Clown was jerking us off until we were suddenly getting twenty calls all saying the same thing. They really have shit scrawled across their foreheads?”
Amparo decided to roll with the punch in this conversation, sighing as she did so. “Yes, they had the word ‘thief’ written on their foreheads. They did corroborate what the mini-mart kid was saying. The muchacho who turned them loose that way had a weird accent. Could’ve been British, they said.”
Annie took a long, noisy slurp of coffee, her white eyebrows arching as she did so. Amparo wasn’t sure if that was the effect of the hot coffee or the fact that they had an English vigilante on the go. “Jesus wept. The number of tourists go through here from across the pond, you bet your cutie Latina ass there are about twenty thousand s
uspects.”
Amparo’s patience was beginning to drain, but she took another slow breath. “Except the stoner kid at the convenience store said the man was driving a pick-up truck. Like a real, honest to God, Yanqui.”
“Holy shit… really? I’m only aware of one Englishman round these parts, local type deal, I mean. He runs a little fishing outfit. I only know cos my parish priest goes fishing with him now and then. He told me at the whist drive last Thursday. Says he likes him. I hope they ain’t gay… I like that priest.”
Annie casually upped and walked away, off to start despatching in her own inimitable manner.
Sosa’s mouth hung open. She didn’t know which she was more surprised by. The fact that Annie had just delivered her a slender lead, or the fact that this woman who could make a hooker blush went to church.
6
Meetings of Minds
Vincent Cardell watched in silence as the blue waters of Biscayne Bay sparkled in the sunlight. The limousine carrying him sped over the I-195 bridge, leaving downtown Miami behind. He was on his way to South Beach, where the beautiful people flocked to see and be seen. Not that Cardell was looking forward to his appointment there. Quite the reverse.
His head was like a washing machine. Thoughts, plans, worries and possible scenarios thrashed around his mind, colliding, torturing him at a time when he knew he would have to be as calm as the waters beneath him.
His wife’s last words as he left rang out amongst the jumble in his head. “Give nothing away. Be scant on detail and turn on that wretched charm of yours… it’s about all we have left…”
The limo pulled onto the smaller streets of South Beach itself. Hotels rose up high on either side. People on the streets a mixture of tourists and panhandlers all flocking to the sun-kissed strip of land. Some were there to have a day of fun, others trying to profit from the generosity the atmosphere might generate.
Cardell took in the sight of a bedraggled-looking vagrant. The man stood by the traffic light that stopped his progress. At first glance, you could have been forgiven for thinking that the homeless man was one hundred years old. His hair was wild, sand-coloured, his face was lined like asphalt cracked by a blistering sun. Looking down, Vincent noticed that instead of shoes, he wore wads of newspaper taped to his feet. Bony legs led up to a pair of filthy board shorts and a T-shirt with Mickey Mouse flipping the bird at the world on the front. Vincent suddenly felt the cold of the air-conditioning in the car. The chill made the hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand up. The homeless man couldn’t see Vincent. The limo was swathed in privacy glass, yet it felt like the homeless man was staring right into his eyes, deeper, further, going right to the core of him. The traffic light changed. Vincent felt the transmission of the long car engage, and as they pulled away from the corner, the homeless man held up the piece of cardboard he had been holding down by his side. In scratchy, spidery letters, the words on it hit Vincent like a slap to the face:
“‘What would Jesus do?”
Suddenly, Vincent found his moment of calm. The Good Lord had come to him in his moment of need. A sign… a reminder that Jesus shone his great light on those who believed and spread his word. No matter that he was about to meet with Ines Zedillo. Vincent knew he could deal with her now. He had been chosen. Chosen by God to lead. Chosen to do this work, to spread the Lord’s word. He had the might of God’s will on his side.
What would Jesus do? If he had to… why, perform a miracle, of course. When all appeared insurmountable, Jesus trusted, and God had always shown a way. And that was exactly what Vincent intended to do. That day and every day from then on. And if Ines Zedillo was to get in the way of God’s plans for him? Vincent would simply kill her and any she sent after him. After all, he was God’s instrument, he was on this earth to do His bidding. Nothing would stand in his or his Lord’s way.
As Vincent was having his moment of revelation, June Cardell was travelling to a meeting of her own. The venue was a strange one. Since moving to America and marrying Vincent, she had grown accustomed to eating in high-end restaurants and country clubs; the kind of places that required long trousers, collar and tie on the gentlemen and elegant blouses, skirts and heels on the ladies. Porky’s Bayside BBQ in Marathon Key wasn’t that type of place.
June felt more than a little self-conscious as she made her way from the parking lot into the roadside eatery. Her black, flowing maxi dress and matching Prada pumps were at odds with the boards declaring specials of conch fritter and beer-butt chicken. However, the need for privacy and discretion at this stage was a price worth paying for having to set foot in a place she felt beneath her. There was no chance that a paparazzi or journalist would be staking out Porky’s.
She pushed up her sunglasses into her shining brunette hair, squinting slightly against the sudden glare of the sun, Scanning the tables, she looked for the reason she was setting foot in a place that had picture menus and plastic-topped tables. She soon spotted him. At a corner table set flush against the open windows, looking directly out onto the boat dock that separated the place from the Gulf of Mexico.
With the slightest nod of his large, clean-shaven head, the man she’d come to talk to beckoned her towards him. As she sat opposite, she was able to check that her lipstick was still immaculate in the reflection of his sunglasses.
“What a delightful bistro you’ve picked…” She was about to say his name but stopped herself. The need for caution and secrecy prompted her to bite her tongue.
“This is one of South Florida’s finer establishments, love. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried the fried pickles… quite something.” His English accent made June feel a little homesick, but she brushed the flash of that emotion away as you would shoo a fly. Home was not somewhere she ever expected to see again.
At that, a server appeared next to her. Tall, gangly and way too old to be wearing the shorts with red braces holding them up, his belly touched the edge of their table while he was still standing a foot away from it. Still, she thought, he had what Americans called a perky disposition.
“Welcome to Porky’s. We hope you enjoy our relaxed island atmosphere. What can I getcha to drink…?”
“Coffee,” came the reply from behind the reflective shades. June tried to not stare at the size of the waiter’s stomach at eye-level beside her.
“I’d like a glass of rosé wine, please.” As soon as she said it, she regretted her choice.
“Ma’am, is that the pinky-coloured one?”
“Errr…”
“She’ll have iced tea.” The gruff tone of the London accent was all the waiter needed to hear. He beetled off to give them the privacy they required, hollering the order across the bar as he did so.
“So, Mrs C. It’s a joy to see you. It’s been a while. Not since your fun ‘n’ games back in London. How can my special brand of talents serve you today?”
“It has been a while. From what I hear, you had more than a spot of bother in London, too. How’d you get thrown clear?”
“When you know as many people of privilege as I do, most problems can be made to disappear. Especially when you can remind those people exactly how well I know them and their… what shall I call them? Dirty little secrets?”
“Yes, but getting into the US…”
“You made it… and we both know butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth now, don’t we… more likely it would sizzle…”
June was about to register a little indignation but suddenly, the belly was back and drinks were being served.
“Now, how about some lunch today?”
“We need a little longer with the menus. The choice… too many good things to eat, mate.”
Mr Belly got the message, once again, and off he went.
June leant forward, an intense expression on her face. “You listen to me. I was never so much as arrested, never mind charged, back in London. I have a new life here now, a fresh start and a successful one at that, and that’s why I need your help. I want to pres
erve that life, and I’m having a little… difficulty.”
Once she had said it out loud, June realised that she had been holding the weight of anxiety in her stomach for quite some time. Her companion waved a large hand gently in front of his own face.
“What now? Mr Jesus Freak not paying you enough attention… or just not paying?”
“Fuck you. If you came here just to insult me, you’re wasting both our time. But I know there always has to be something in it for you. You’re working an angle by meeting with me. You need something, too, or else you wouldn’t have shown that wide-boned face of yours.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, love. A wise man once said that opportunity dances with those already on the dance floor. Your cry for help is simply a chance for me to have a little dance.”
“Oh God… I’d forgotten how full if it you are.”
“What exactly do you want from me, Mrs Jesus Freak?”
June sat back, knowing it was now or never. She either had to trust this man or change tack and come up with another idea. Except she was the one who had reached out to him, once she’d heard the rumours that he was in America. She knew time was against her. She had no choice. “Okay. It is about my husband…”
“Over the side, is he? A little indiscretion or something that you just cannot ignore any longer?”
“If only it were that easy. I couldn’t care less if he was having it away with the staff. Sadly, it’s a little more complicated than that. “
“Money? Filthy lucre?”
“And where we get it from…”
“Souls living in fear of never walking through those pearly gates tend to be easily parted from their dosh.”
“They are, and they do… but that is not our only income stream.”
The big man sat forward in his seat, removing his sunglasses. June had to suppress a little gasp as she saw, for the first time, how his left eye was a mangled blob of white and yellow in its socket. It looked like an egg that had been broken in the pan.
