by Don Bruns
“And that’s why Norman is living in Indian Creek.”
“And why we live in a one-bedroom piece of crap in Carol City. This guy gets rich off of stuff. Hell, Skip, he used to own the Philadelphia Eagles.”
“And we don’t have this stuff.”
“Never will. Don’t even want it.” He paused. “Well, I still think I’m going to buy a Cadillac. But we can haul all this stuff. We’ll get a bigger truck next time and haul Mr. Branon’s Cadillac wherever he wants.”
“So if you don’t have stuff, you learn how to leverage everyone else’s stuff?”
“I should have the business degree.” He watched the street signs carefully and finally jerked the truck to the right, following a winding road. “Skip, you lack vision. With you it’s all nuts and bolts. I like that, don’t get me wrong. Someone has to sound the alarm once in a while, right or wrong. Someone has to ask about the fiscal responsibility of a certain project. But-” he braked for what looked like a low-riding, racing-yellow Maserati that came popping out of a side street, “but someone has to have the ideas. If we can’t afford stuff that people will buy, we’ll haul and store people’s stuff. The guy who started Waste Management started with one truck, Skip. He hauled people’s stuff. He’s now worth about a gazillion dollars.”
“Body parts, James. Who would have thought that body parts would be part of people’s stuff?”
He didn’t say anything. We’d been avoiding the subject for a while. It was weird enough to have the finger riding in the rear of the truck, but the class ring made it even stranger. And I was feeling a lot of guilt about not calling Em. She had arranged the job and probably should be aware of what had happened.
“It’s through those gates.” James pointed at a guardhouse to the right. There was another side business. The security companies that guard people’s stuff. The problem with my company was that in my assigned territory, Carol City, no one had stuff worth guarding. I needed to be selling security systems in Bal Harbor or Indian Creek Village. Someone was making a fortune right here.
The guard called ahead and got approval. He handed James a small map and pointed out the condo about an eighth of a mile back. “Mr. Fuentes informed me you were delivering some mail to this address. We’ll expect to see you back at the gate within, let’s say, half an hour?”
James bristled. “That depends on Mr. Fuentes.”
The elderly, uniformed guard stared at him under the shiny bill of his blue cap. “Half an hour, sir. If it’s longer, please ask Mr. Fuentes to call the guardhouse.”
We pulled away. “Mr. Fuentes-half an hour. Fucker practically threatened us.”
“Just protecting people’s stuff, James.”
He was silent and sullen. We pulled up in front of a pale stucco and brick building and parked in a guest-only spot.
“Well, pardner, who’s going to carry the mail?”
It was a moonless night, bright lights bouncing off the water on the shore side of the towering structure. I could only imagine what it looked like from thirty stories up.
James opened the sliding truck door and I picked up the box with most of the mail, the opened manila envelope with the severed digit lying on top. I shuddered.
“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night…”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s just get this over with.” I never would have done this by myself. There’s courage in a crowd, even if the crowd is only two.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T HE DOORMAN POINTED US TO AN ELEVATOR on the far side of the spacious lobby. A gigantic vase of multicolored fresh flowers sat on an onyx table in the center of the vestibule, and luxurious couches and rich mahogany-colored leather chairs surrounded the table. On the wall was a painting that had to measure fifteen by ten feet. Thick textures of muted greens, yellows, and blues formed an underwater collage, with plants and tropical fish etched on canvas for eternity. I’m not a big fan of art, but I stopped to admire the sheer expanse of the piece.
“Come on, man. Half an hour, remember?” James was at the elevator, pointing at his watch.
“We’re just going to hand him the envelope?”
“I think we owe him a quick explanation.”
“What? We’re hauling your stuff to be stored and in the process we opened some of your mail?”
The door slid silently open, and we stepped inside. Plush carpeted walls hushed the sound of doors closing and cables shooting us to the top. In less time than I hoped for, the doors opened and we looked out on a birch-paneled hallway.
“This is going to be very strange, James.”
“Very.”
We walked down the thick, heavy carpeting, looking for his door. There were four units per floor and Fuentes’s was the last. James pushed the buzzer on the door and we waited. An interminable amount of time passed. Finally the door swung open and we were face to face with Rick Fuentes.
“You have mail for me?”
I was immediately taken with his angular face, his deep green eyes, and his steel gray hair. The man looked like a matinee idol a couple of years past his prime. His Latin features and deep tan added to the look as he studied us, a puzzled expression on his face.
I looked at James, and he had his mouth half open, nothing coming out.
“Apparently your mail isn’t being forwarded.” I shrugged my shoulders, the envelope heavy in my hand. “We were asked-hired to take it to a storage unit, and-”
“You decided to bring it my attention instead?” There was no denying a Cuban accent. “And this is all the mail you were hired to pick up?” He motioned to the envelope.
James was staring at me, waiting for my next move.
“No. There’s a lot more in our truck. This package, this envelope seemed to be leaking something and we thought maybe something had broken. So we opened it.”
“My mail? You opened it?”
“Yes.”
“And was something broken?” He made no move to invite us inside. I was glad. There was still a chance to race down the hall, jump on the elevator, and make a clean get away.
“Mr. Fuentes, we found a finger. Here.” I thrust the envelope into his hands. I desperately wanted to walk away from it all. I motioned to James who still appeared to be frozen.
“A finger?” He peered into the envelope, then reached in, pulling out the severed digit. His eyes grew wide. Dropping it on the marble entranceway, he backed into his condo. “What do you want? How could you do something this hideous?”
“Mr. Fuentes, we didn’t do anything. We thought it was something you should see. There’s a letter-”
“What do you want?” His voice was higher, louder than before. James shifted his gaze between Fuentes and me.
“Nothing. What I want to do is leave.”
I turned and grabbed James by the arm.
“Young man?”
I turned back. He had a revolver in his hand and it was leveled about crotch high.
“Please come in. Now.”
I should have kept on walking, but I didn’t. We followed Rick Fuentes into his condo.
CHAPTER TWELVE
W E SAT AT A CARVED MAHOGANY TABLE in ornate chairs. He’d deposited the finger somewhere else, but the letter and the class ring sat in front of us, a reminder of how our first job had become a lot more complicated than we anticipated. The girlfriend had served coffee-deep, rich, stay-awake coffee that you could almost chew. There was no chance I was going to sleep tonight, coffee or not.
“So you see,” James had finally found his voice, “we’re on our first hauling job. That’s it. And we seriously know nothing about your mail. If we did, we’d tell you.” The handgun lay on the table in front of Fuentes, another reminder that we certainly weren’t out of the woods yet.
“And Jackie knows nothing of this? She was to open all my mail.”
“We can only speculate. She didn’t seem to.”
He frowned and picked up the blue-stoned class ring, rubbing the jewel with his thumb. “D
o you know whose ring this is?”
“No. I only know that Skip and I graduated that same year from the same school.”
He took a deep breath, squinting at us. He didn’t know whether to trust us or not, but I could sense he needed to trust someone.
“It’s my son’s ring.” There was a tremor in his voice.
“Your son?”
“Victor.”
Victor. There was no Victor Fuentes in our class. I didn’t know everyone personally, but the name certainly rang no bell. I looked at James and he shook his head.
“Vic Maitlin.”
As in captain of the football team Vic Maitlin. As in senior class president Vic Maitlin. As in get the girls Vic Maitlin.
As in saved my life Vic Maitlin?
“When I divorced my first wife, she took back her maiden name and she registered him as Maitlin. His true name is still Fuentes.” Rick Fuentes stared at us with his piercing, emerald eyes. “Where is my son?”
“Honest to Christ, we don’t know.” I looked at James and shrugged my shoulders, doing my absolute best to remain calm. “Mr. Fuentes, we could have gone to the police. Instead, we came straight to you, sir. We have the rest of your mail in the truck outside. There is absolutely nothing we want from you. Please, believe me. If we had an agenda, we would have told you by now.” I shuddered. There was only one Vic Maitlin. This was no mistake. The young boy who’d saved my life. And I swear to you I have never, ever mentioned this to anyone. Not to my mother, James, or Em. I had a hard time catching my breath.
He buried his head in his hands, a tremor shaking his body. When he raised his face again, he appeared at ease. His blond mistress walked into the room and put her hands on his shoulders, gently massaging them. She looked all of nineteen years old, a petite little girl dressed in gray sweats.
“You know Vic?”
James tore his eyes from the blond. “Of course. We weren’t really close, but sure, we knew him. Everyone knew Vic.”
Fuentes smiled softly. “You haven’t kidnapped him? You have no idea where he is?”
“None.”
“I want him back home.” He looked over his shoulder at the girl, probably four or five years younger than his son. “ W e want him back.”
She nodded.
Vic Maitlin. I couldn’t get past the name. Jesus, my worst memory. My best memory. I wouldn’t be standing in front of the father if it weren’t for the son.
“Help me find him.”
“What?” I didn’t think I’d heard what I heard.
“Help me find him. I have an idea where he is. I need corroboration. That’s all.”
“Mr. Fuentes, we’re not in the missing person business.” I shook my head emphatically, realizing that I had the chance to finally pay Vic back. But it made no sense. I wasn’t the hero. Vic was.
“There will be no danger.”
“You’ve got a finger that tells me otherwise.”
He frowned. “All I need is for you to verify his location. It should take a couple of days. How much would that be worth to you?”
“Five thousand dollars.” James leaned forward, his eyes on fire.
“No. Mr. Fuentes, we have jobs. We’re not available.” I pushed my chair back and stood up. Everything told me to say no. But I owed this Vic Maitlin. Still, I held back.
“Five thousand dollars!” James stood too, and glared at me. “Mr. Fuentes, we’ll give you your corroboration. For five grand.”
“Half now, and half when you find him.”
It was like a movie. It was happening on the big screen, and even though I was involved I was powerless to stop it.
“Why us? You don’t even know us. Two minutes ago you thought we were responsible for your son’s abduction. Now you’re willing to pay us to find him?”
Fuentes grabbed the hand of his girlfriend and squeezed it. “I have no one I can trust.”
“Well, you can’t trust us. You know nothing about us.” I prayed he’d take back the offer. I wasn’t the person his son was. I didn’t put myself out on a limb.
“If I’ve made a mistake, I’ll know it in a very short time. I want my son back, at any cost. Find him, and I’ll pay you more than the five thousand dollars.”
Sinking back into my chair, I felt weak.
“Tell us where you think he is, Mr. Fuentes. We’ll start immediately.” James was on fire.
“He’s with an international group of businessmen.”
“Spanish?” I couldn’t help but ask.
He paused. “Cuban.”
James looked at me, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Em told me.”
“You knew about this?”
I took a deep breath. I knew nothing, and I knew everything. I knew that we’d gone way too far already. I knew that the damned box truck just might be the death of us.
“I know this is a mistake.”
Fuentes picked up the revolver, never pointing it, but balancing it in his right hand. “Mr. Moore, I’m willing to pay you for this service.” His Cuban accent had a regal, formal air to it. “The two of you and Cynthia and I are the only ones who know about this. I have no one else to turn to. I’m afraid I must insist that you do me this favor. If you don’t, a missing finger may be a minor inconvenience.”
James seemed hypnotized by the pistol. Rick Fuentes kept his eyes on mine. I was the one he had to convince. He was doing a very good job of it.
“I’m going to tell you where I think he is. Confirm that for me. I would like an answer in twenty-four hours. After that, I’ll send someone to look for you. Understood?”
I nodded. James nodded.
He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and scribbled an address on a napkin, pushing it over to James. Cautiously, James picked it up and held it gingerly.
“Cynthia.” It was the first time he’d addressed her. She left the table and returned with a checkbook. Fuentes tore out a pale blue check and penned in the amount, signing with a flourish. He pushed that over to James as well.
We walked out of the condo, Fuentes still sitting at the table, the blond rubbing his shoulders. The last thing I saw was Rick Fuentes, tapping the barrel of the gun on the table. His eyes were like a cat’s, calculating and cunning. We had his money and we had his address. I had a debt to repay. We had no choice.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WE WERE THIRTEEN. James and I, Em and Vic. Twelve or thirteen, and it was a school field trip. You remember field trips. Sometimes they were to the zoo or maybe an aquarium or one time to the Miami River. And we were always paired up with a buddy. I was paired up with Vic, and even though we weren’t close, I was excited about the pairing. Vic was playing junior high basketball and was already the star athlete of the seventh grade. His dark features, athletic prowess, and quick smile made him a candidate for most popular kid in the entire school.
Teachers loved his wit and intellect. Girls loved his looks, personality, and gentle nature and they weren’t even sure why. Guys found him to be easy to be around, with a self-effacing nature and a natural humor. There was nothing not to like about Vic Maitlin, except for two guys he palled around with. Justin Cramer and Mike Stowe. Mean, nasty, and full of themselves, these two guys made the school bullies look like choirboys. Vic distanced himself from their antics but hung with them just the same.
This field trip, Vic Maitlin was my buddy. He accepted the role with ease and grace and we acted like we’d been best friends since first grade.
And after the incident at the sinkhole, with Cramer and Stowe, Vic told me to keep everything to myself. He swore me to secrecy, for my entire life, and even though it was a childhood promise, it stuck with me. I never had any intention of going back on my word, and if his life hadn’t been in danger, I would have taken the secret to my grave. But Vic was in trouble, serious trouble, and it was time to repay my debt.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“ALL THE REST OF HIS STUFF is in the truck. Should we go back and-” James pointe
d back at the high-rise.
“Jesus.” I stared at the back end of the truck. We’d gotten so wrapped up in the finger that we’d forgotten the rest of the mail. I gazed back at the condo. We’d be back to report, and frankly I’d had enough of Rick Fuentes and his gun for one night. “Nah. It’s late and we’ve pretty much used up our half hour. We’ll bring it back when we give him our report.”
“You didn’t sound too sure about this job.”
“I’m not.” It was hard not to tell my story. “Man, we could get our asses shot off. Or fingers hacked off. This could be dangerous.”
We stood in the parking lot, gazing out at the harbor. A long, lean ship moved slowly, lights strung from towers fore and aft. Finally, James spoke up.
“Listen, amigo. We’ve made $1,500 for hauling Fuentes’s stuff. We’ll make $5,000 plus a bonus for finding his son. Hell, Skip, that’s more than half of what the van cost. Not bad for our first day in business.”
“James, you know if we don’t find Vic, Rick Fuentes is going to jump our asses. It was more of a threat than a request. Do you understand that?”
He was quiet. I slid into the truck, and he stayed outside, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. The crickets chirped in the foliage and a couple of night birds called out. From somewhere in the bay I could hear a motor boat bouncing on the water and the yapping of a young puppy.
“We’re in some deep shit, bubba.” James blew a smoke ring into the night, the lights from the condo casting shadows all around us.
“Duh! We could have given it back to Jackie or gone to the cops, but-”
“Let’s not lay blame. What’s done is done. Vic Maitlin is with a group of Cuban businessmen. Why do you think they’re cutting off his fingers?”
“Fingers? Are there multiples?”
“No. Just a thought. If we don’t find him, there may be more.”
