by Scott Cook
I drew in a deep breath and sighed, “Okay… okay… nobody figured she’d intentionally try and get past us. Anybody have any idea where she might have gone?”
“She did talk about wanting to do First Friday…” Lisa stated. “But it’s only Wednesday…”
“You said she got weird when you talked about Campbell?” I asked.
Lisa nodded and fidgeted, “Yeah… got a strange look on her face and seemed to sort of… shut down.”
I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. I pulled out my phone and called Joey Knuckles.
“Yeah?”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Not sure… on 34th Street I guess.”
“Did you see her?” I inquired. “See if she got in a car or something?”
“Nah… she must’ve got one of them Ubers or somethin’. I tried to get outta the neighborhood fast and see if I could spot her in a car… but so far, nothin’.”
Then why the fuck are you driving around randomly in a town you don’t know shit about, I wanted to ask. Instead, I said: “You’re not gonna find her just driving all over creation. Go to this Doctor Felix Campbell’s place and watch him. She might go there at some point. I’ll try and see what I can do on my end.”
“You think she’s goin’ after this guy?”
“I’m not sure, but the gang here says that the mention of his name set her off,” I explained. “I think he’s involved… it’s a lead, anyway.”
“You got an address?”
I texted it to him. I sat next to Lisa on the love seat and put my arm around her. She leaned into me and sighed.
“Scott… I…”
“Take it easy, kid,” I said softly. “You’ve spent some time with her over the past couple of days. Any ideas on where she might go?”
“Not really,” she said glumly.
I called Jean Belmar. I was surprised that she answered so quickly. She said they’d just landed maybe fifteen minutes ago. She said that she’d probably be back in town the next day or Friday morning. I told her that Veronica had slipped away and to let me know if she got in touch. Jean said that she would. She’d also keep an eye out for her once she landed back in Saint Pete.
I frowned after hanging up. I couldn’t be entirely sure Jean was on my side. Yes, she seemed like a straight shooter… but she was Andrew Bradford’s fiancé. I didn’t want to be mistrustful… but I couldn’t afford to be trusting, either.
I called Alex.
“How goes the case?” he asked.
“Not so well, Alex,” I said. “I found a dead body in Sarasota this morning and… and Veronica has vanished.”
There was a long pause, “Vanished?”
I explained the situation, “I don’t know where she is. Her private jet will be back downtown tomorrow or Friday maybe and… and I’m not sure the pilot is entirely with me. Do you guys think you could put out a BOLO for her? Maybe even contact the Albert Whitted tower and tell them to deny the plane permission to take off when it comes back?”
“Sure,” Alex replied. “But Scott… you know as well as I do that this is a big area…”
“I’m painfully aware of that, Alex,” I cranked.
“And you’ve got no idea what’s up?”
I sighed, “I braced Doctor Campbell a little while ago. The body I found was Whittaker’s, and I think the doctor is dirty, Alex. He’s a baby doctor, not a surgeon. Yet he was attending Ted at Palms. You might want to send a car over to watch him. My bet is that somebody is going to want him quiet, too. I already put a man on him, but…”
“Jesus Christ… okay, will do. Let me get this shit show in motion and I’ll talk to you in a bit. Hey… didn’t officer Pembroke notice her leaving?”
I chuffed, “Alex… I don’t mean to seem like an asshole here… but so far, you guys haven’t really knocked it out of the park. No, she did not.”
Alex cursed in English and Spanish, “Fuck… I’m sorry, Scott. I don’t know what the hell’s going on with this deal… but it’s usually not like this.”
I grumbled something non-committal, “Well… Veronica obviously was intent on lambing. Can’t really blame anybody.”
He hung up and I sat back and pulled my hands wearily across my face, “God dammit…”
“So what’s the plan?” Sonny asked.
“I’m workin’ on it…” I muttered. “Maybe the only thing I can do is take this to the source. Or as close to a source as I’ve got. I need to go see Lou Cardoza.”
“Not alone,’ Lisa stated firmly.
I chuffed, “Yeah, no shit.”
“I’ll go witcha,” Sonny said. “Godfuhbid somethin’ jumps off, it wouldn’t hurt my feelin’s to pop that piece’a shit.”
“What about the house?” I asked.
“These tree can watch the joint,” Sonny suggested.
“I’m going too,” Lisa said flatly.
Jimmy smirked but said nothing. Sonny frowned, “No offense… but maybe we should take T. If it comes down to trowin’ hands, he and Jarvis here are the best guys for that. Least wit Joey gone.”
“Can you fight?” Lisa asked him.
Sonny shrugged, “I’m okay, but mainly I’m a guy walks behind carryin’ the gun. I mean, look at T, for Christ’s sake. He and Jarvis are our two biggest guys. I don’t think we should go wittout we got two bruisers. T can shoot okay, and I know Jarvis can.”
“Fine, then four of us go,” Lisa said.
Sonny looked at me and spread his hands. I frowned and turned to her, “I don’t think we should leave Jimmy alone here. Just in case. We need at least two here in case Cardoza or somebody else tries some shit.”
“Then leave T,” Lisa said. “If it comes to fighting you can handle that better than anybody. And Jimmy might need T’s help here, as you say. A shooter and a bruiser. Besides, I’m Cuban. That might help.”
I drew in a breath, “Okay. That’s how we’ll do it. Jimmy, T, you guys hang out. Keep in touch with Joe. I’ve got an idea for later. Okay, kids… grab your guns and let’s hit the road. Gotta go and do one of my favorite things in the world… have a nice tongue-wag with a drug dealer.”
18
For nearly a hundred years now, Tampa has been known as “Cigar City.” This is due almost entirely to a Cuban immigrant named Vicente Martinez Ybor. Ybor came to Tampa in the late nineteenth century and set up shop manufacturing cigars. His efforts helped to form a thriving neighborhood that employed thousands of Cuban, Spanish and Italian immigrants until well after the Second World War. Although the neighborhood declined after that, nearly turning into a ghost town until the 1980s, it once again thrives as a spot for fine dining, nightlife, historical interest and, yes, cigars.
The eclectic Ybor City neighborhood features cobblestone streets, old-fashioned streetlamps and historic buildings that house good hotels, night clubs and quality restaurants, as well as a bustling Bohemian community. Lou Cardoza apparently kept offices above a nightclub he owned on Seventh Avenue, the main drag of the area. The nightclub was called Un Noche en Cuba, A Night in Cuba. Based on the line more than a dozen deep outside the main doors, it was evidently a popular spot, even in the afternoon.
I led my posse up to the main entrance. There, an outsized bouncer who couldn’t have stood less than six-four and couldn’t have weighed less than two-fifty hulked. Lisa and I stood together, and Sonny stood behind, looking impassive.
“We’d like to speak to Mr. Cardoza,” I said.
The bouncer slid his hooded eyes over to gaze at me from under his spiked high and tight haircut and said: “Oh yeah?”
“Is he in?” I inquired.
The man’s thin lips worked the cigarette they held up and down a little as he spoke, “Who’s askin’?”
“Ybor City Chamber of Commerce,” I stated. “We’ve come to present him with a plaque. Tampa’s most successful underworld figure.”
The bouncer leaned in close, bringing the cherry of his pill dangerously close to my face, “Why d
on’t you do yourself a favor, pal, and take a walk.”
I smirked, “Why don’t you do yourself a favor and open this goddamned door before I use your head to open it.”
The man leaned back and chuckled, looking to a pair of well-dressed young ladies whose entire wardrobe, if combined, would barely give one of them a trifling sense of modesty. They looked on with interest, the redhead snapping her gum and the blonde puffing languidly on a cigarette of her own.
“You believe this fuckin’ guy?” he asked.
His punch came fast, but not fast enough. I slipped his short right cross and pumped two jabs into his right eye before his fist stopped its arc. He stepped back for a second and then came in again. By then, I’d slid into a boxer’s stance. My body turned, left foot forward, left fist cocked under my left eye and right ready at my right cheek.
He moved in, his fists held near his chest in some form of ready stance I wasn’t familiar with. He sent two straight punches at my head, making little oof, oof sounds as he did. I shuffled side to side, swinging over my center of gravity like a metronome. I feinted with a right cross, and when he put out his beefy left forearm to block me, I looped the punch high and connected with his jaw. His head snapped back, and I shuffled to my right.
I was feeling good. Strong, fast and energized. Like I needed this. As if my body had been storing up frustration and irritation and now had an outlet. I moved in and gave him a fast one-two-three combo, landing the jab, right cross and left hook to his now open body. The punches weren’t my hardest, but they were good.
I had to hand it to him; he was a gamer. He came in for more, crouching slightly and launching a high straight kick toward my midriff. I crossed my forearms into an X and scissored the foot away from my body. Unfortunately, this left me open for a bolo punch from his left hand that connected solidly on my right cheek. I saw stars and swore I heard a ringing. It would be the genesis of a fine mouse in a couple of hours.
He was slightly off-balance now, his right leg coming down and the follow through on his left carrying him slightly to my left. I could tell that he was trying to carry the momentum into a roundhouse that would no doubt sour my belly. I came in close, launching a quick flurry of short but very hard punches into the ribs on his exposed left side. I heard an audible and gratifying umph as the air was knocked from his lungs and his roundhouse devolved into a stumble to his right.
I side-stepped, grabbed a handful of hard shoulder and spun him off-balance, driving a right uppercut beneath his jaw, and he went down to his knees, gagging and gasping for air.
He looked up dazedly at me, his right eye already swelling shut and with a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. He blinked in surprise and confusion.
“What the fuck…?” he muttered, most probably to himself.
“We’ll be heading in to see Mr. Cardoza now,” I informed him, faking as if my own breath weren’t coming hard.
As he passed, Sonny grinned down at the bouncer and wrapped his knuckles on the man’s spikey black hair, “He did warn yiz.”
Inside, the club was dark, lit only by small electric candles set on the tables that ringed the dance floor. A series of LED spotlights, hidden in the ceiling two stories above, cast multi-colored splashes of light on the dancers in a pattern that seemed random at first but was actually in time with the frenetic Latin soundtrack. Behind the dance floor and facing the entrance was a long bar nearly full of patrons. To one side a sign indicated restrooms and hung over a hallway that led off into darkness. We made our way to it and soon found that not only were there women’s and men’s restrooms, but there was also a door marked employee’s only and another set into the rear of the hallway adjacent to the fire exit. Sonny tried the employee’s only door and found it opened into a large storeroom. The other opened onto a set of stairs.
“Where do these stairs go?” Lisa wondered aloud.
I looked at them for a moment and waved an arm, “They go up.”
The three of us began to climb. As soon as the door closed behind Sonny, the sounds of the music out in the club vanished. A low-frequency bass beat still throbbed through the walls, yet this also began to fade as we made our way to the second and then third floor. There was no door for the second floor, the high ceilings of the club no doubt precluding one.
“I’d have to think that he’s got a guy on the other side of this door,” Sonny said, pulling a
9mm from under his sport jacket.
Lisa pulled her Glock 43 from her purse and charged it. I had my little Beretta Tomcat in an ankle holster but elected to leave it where it was. I already had two gunnies behind me, and it might look better and less threatening if at least one of us didn’t walk in with a weapon drawn.
I pushed the door open onto another hallway. This one was very different from the club’s down below. That hallway had been tiled and featured a light wainscoting and minimal light. The hallway into which I stepped now was painted in a cool light tan with fashionable sconces that cast wedges of light above and below. The floor was carpeted in thick wine-colored fiber. It reminded me of a corridor in a fancy hotel.
The one other thing this corridor had that the first hadn’t was a man dressed in black slacks and jacket. Beneath, he wore a floral-patterned silk shirt with the wide collar points laid out over the jacket. He even had a matching handkerchief in the jacket’s breast pocket. He also held a generic but lethal-looking pistol in his right hand, which was now aimed in my direction. His swarthy and somewhat roundish face was set in a sneer.
“Buenos dias,” I said pleasantly.
“It’s not going to be very good for you unless you start saying something I want to hear,” the man said with only a hint of a Cuban accent. “This area is off limits to guests.”
“You gonna shoot us for going up the wrong stairs?” I asked, holding my hands out with the palms up. “I come in peace and bring you good tidings from my people to yours.”
“Who’s us?” the man asked coldly.
That’s when Sonny and Lisa both slid out from behind me and to either side, holding their own pistols on the man. His face didn’t change, but his eyes did flick to both of them and then back to me.
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Cardoza,” I said. “No need for all these scary guns.”
“What about?” he asked, still holding his gun on me.
“It’s a personal matter,” I explained. “Why don’t you lower that rod before something unpleasant occurs?”
“They shoot me, I shoot you,” he said flatly.
“Yeah… but then we mess up this lovely carpeting,” I stated. “Seems like a waste, especially since we didn’t come here to do Lou any harm. Why don’t you just tell him Jarvis is here and wishes to say hello.”
I heard a disembodied laugh come from overhead, and then Lou Cardoza’s voice said: “I already know you’re here, Jarvis. I was wondering when you’d show. It’s okay, Bernardo. Let them pass.”
“He’s got a man and woman with him, and they both have guns,” Bernardo informed his boss.
Another chuckle, “That’s okay, Bernardo. They have guns, you have a gun, I have a gun… let them pass.”
Bernardo only shrugged, lowered his piece and jerked his head toward a door at the end of the hall. I smiled at him and strolled casually over to the indicated portal and opened it. I could feel Lisa and Sonny behind me.
The office into which we stepped was less that than an English drawing room. A range of large windows gave a nearly panoramic view of Seventh Avenue below. The chamber must have been twenty by thirty feet and was done up in dark woods and the same soft carpet as the corridor. A huge granite-topped desk that might have doubled for a banquet table sat along one wall, allowing the occupant an unobstructed view out of the windows.
On the other side of the room was a long wet bar. Between were two sofas and several comfortable interview chairs set before the desk. Set behind the desk was a well-dressed man of about forty. He was dressed like Bernard
o had been, except that his suit was bone and his shirt and splay handkerchief a deep burgundy. A delicate cloud of aromatic Cuban tobacco streamed from his newly lit cigar and filled the room.
Leaning against the wet bar was a man dressed all in black. He managed to look both cadaverous and robust all at once. He was several inches taller than my six-foot-two and probably forty pounds lighter than my two-twenty. His jet-black hair was slicked back, and a pair of sharply angled brows rose over a pair of depthless onyx eyes.
“So we meet at last, Jarvis,” the man behind the desk, Cardoza, said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
I didn’t have to turn around to know that Bernardo was lingering in the open door behind us.
“You know damned well to what you owe this pleasure, Cardoza,” I said. “Let’s begin with the two men you sent for me two nights ago and the three you sent for Veronica Bradford Friday night.”
“All of whom you’ve dealt with at no harm to yourself,” Cardoza said expansively, waving his cigar negligently in the air. “So as I see it, we’re even… in spite of the fact that I’ve lost at least three good men.”
“That’s how you see it, huh?” I asked.
“Hey, Jarvis… you come here with two shooters and barge into my office uninvited,” Cardoza said. “You’re lucky you’re not already dead. I have to admit though… I like your choice of talent. None of mine look like her, huh, Eddie?”
The lanky man at the bar only chuffed.
“How’d you get past Kyler anyway?” Cardoza asked nonchalantly.
I blinked, “Who?”
“My bouncer downstairs,” Cardoza explained. “Guy’s one of the best. With his size… and knows jujitsu.”
Sonny chuckled from behind me. Again, I didn’t have to look to know he was covering Bernardo. Lisa snorted, “He was outclassed.”
Cardoza chuckled and puffed, “Damn… Guess that’s where you got that knot coming out under your eye, huh? You want a job?”
