by Don Bruns
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 pointed 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.”
“Let’s think about it. All we have to do is stake out the address and see if Vic is being kept there. We get a yes or no, and we’re done with it.”
“Stake out?” He chuckled, finding humor in a very tense situation. “You’ve been watching too many cop shows, Skip.”
“Give me a better solution.”
“No, you’re right. We’ll go over there tomorrow and see if there’s any activity.” He pulled the address from his pocket and scooted into the cab. Holding it to the light, he silently read. “Little Havana. I don’t know where exactly, but I recognize the street.”
“James, we’ve got twenty-four hours. I think tomorrow is a little late.”
He studied me, flicking the ashes from his cigarette out the window.
“Half an hour.”
“What?”
“The guard. He gave us half an hour. Fuentes gave us twenty-four hours. I’m not used to having people hold a stop watch to my activities,” he said.
“I’m not used to finding body parts and being threatened with a gun.”
James started the truck and pulled out. We stopped at the guardhouse, the old man nodded to us, and we continued on our way. He reached over and turned on the radio. We hadn’t taken the time to punch-set the station settings since we played CDs most of the time. A Spanish station played some brassy salsa music and he left it there, just trying to put some noise over the stone-cold silence in the cab.
Finally he spoke. “Regrets are a bitch, Skip.”
“Huh?”
“What do you regret?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You very seldom regret the things you do. You regret the things you don’t do.”
A fair statement.
“I don’t want to have regrets. I want to go out doing everything. I want to own my own business. I want to be worth a million dollars in two years. I want to make love to a hundred beautiful women and settle down with the best one. So what if it means taking chances? My old man took chances—”
“Your dad probably regretted what he did more than what he wished he’d done.” As soon as I said it I wished I hadn’t. I regret the fact that I didn’t get to know my old man a lot better. But I’m not sure it’s my regret. It should be his.
“But not regrets about never having tried. He tried, Skip. He got blind sided by a partner. But, God how that man tried. He regretted never having ridden in a Cadillac. That was his regret. But my God he tried!”
“Your point is?”
“I’m trying, just like he did. But I’m going to succeed. We’re getting a nice windfall here, and if we play our cards right, this business could be a huge success. I don’t want to regret that I didn’t give it a chance.”
I gazed at him, my best friend. He motivated me. I never would have gone to college if he hadn’t pushed the restaurant idea. He was right, of course. A man should do everything during his life to avoid having regrets. I believe that, maybe because James believes it, but it seems like a mantra to live by. Live your life so that when you die there are no regrets. But then, I’m twenty-four years old and when I’m thirty-five or forty, I may laugh at what I thought when I was twenty-four. When I was sixteen, I thought I’d know a lot more at twenty-four than I do now.
“I’ve got one regret already.”
“What?”
“I didn’t call Em.” I pulled my cell phone from its plastic holster and hit speed dial.
“Jesus. You don’t want to tell her that—”
“Hello?”
“Em.”
“Are you guys done unloading? I’ve got your check. Want me to stop over?”
I looked at James and he was shaking his head, watching the oncoming headlights as they whizzed by. He had a big frown on his face.
I put my hand over the receiver for a second. “You were ready to make her a partner when you found out she could drive without a rearview mirror. In retrospect—”
“What do you want to do? Have a conference with her?”
“Not here on the phone.”
“Good.” He spoke in a loud whisper.
“I want to stop by and see her. I want to tell her what’s going on.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant. Put her in danger too?”
“Skip? Skip? Are you there?”
“Yeah. Hold on just a sec.”
“She’s out of danger. We’re in danger, Jackie Fuentes may be in danger. Vic Maitlin is definitely in danger, but Emily is on the outside. We could use some advice from someone on the outside.”
“I guess we don’t have to take it.” He frowned. “All right. Do what you need to do.”
“Em, we’re going to stop by. We need to talk to you about something that’s come up.”
“Skip, that doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not, Emily.” I almost quoted Angel’s line about starting a task that becomes a nightmare, but she wouldn’t have understood and it probably would have scared the hell out of her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EM LIVES TWENTY STORIES up in a high-rise overlooking Biscayne Bay. Everyone we know seems to have a water view; James and I are the only ones that have a brown water ditch to look at. Em looks out at South Beach and the cruise ships that dock across from the causeway. It took us about twenty minutes to get to her condo.
“Come on out on the balcony.”
She brought out three Heinekens and we stared out at the lights from th
e Saturday night party that South Beach was putting on a mile away. You can see some of the Miami skyline and you can see Indian Creek Village from her place. The drawbridge was opening on the causeway to South Beach to let a large-masted sailboat through and a dozen or so cars, trucks, panel vans, and buses were backed up on either side of the bridge. One rich boater, holding up the progress of twenty-four working-class slobs. Florida is all about water and boats and the rich and famous who can afford to live on the water and own those boats. Maybe James was right in his pursuit of the golden goose. Someday he’d be that rich asshole with the boat, holding up the little people on the bridge.
“So, what’s so important?” She handed me the check for $1,500. I had to agree with James, we’d lined up more money in one day than either of us made in three months.
James looked at me. “We had an accident.”
Em frowned and glanced at the check, still in my hand.
“What kind of accident?”
I believed in fast and factual. “We hit the storage building, the mail spilled out of the back of the truck, and we found an envelope with a severed finger.”
I’ve never seen Emily get such an incredulous expression on her face before. The three of us sat there as she absorbed the short story. Finally, she found her voice.
“A severed finger. Somebody’s actual finger.”
“Yes. We tried to take it back to Jackie, but she wouldn’t give us permission to come back to her home and—”
“She knows about the finger?”
“No. I don’t think so. So we—”
“Came here instead?”
James squinted. “Not exactly.”
“Where did you go? To the police. You went to the police. My God, a human finger.”
“Uh, Em,” I cleared my throat. “We didn’t go to the police.”
“Tell me.”
“We went to Rick Fuentes.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Well, James pointed out that it was his mail.”
“This is a joke. You guys made up this story just to mess with me.”
“No.”
“Tell me it’s a joke.”
“We’d be lying.”
She stood up and started pacing, taking short swallows of beer as she walked. “Jesus, what am I going to tell Jackie? Why this finger?”
“Well, it’s not her business is it? And we’re not sure why the finger. It came in the form of a threat to Fuentes.”
“Of course it’s Jackie’s business. And what kind of threat?”
I shook my head. “Em, it’s Rick Fuentes’s business. The threat seems to be from some Cuban guys who have an ax to grind with Fuentes. And we haven’t got to the bad part yet.”
“Give me a break. Tell me that it doesn’t go any further.”
“It’s his son. Vic Maitlin.”
She dropped the green bottle and it shattered into a dozen splintered pieces, watery brown beer running into the grout between the white ceramic tiles on the balcony.
“Vic? Oh, my God.”
“You remember him?”
“I went out with him. We dated. His dad wasn’t—I don’t remember. Maybe he’d left his first wife by then. I don’t remember anything about his father, but Vic Maitlin was the first—oh, my God.”
She let it hang. I knew they’d gone out before Em and I had started our off-and-on dating.
“It gets worse.”
“How? How could it possibly get worse? How?”
“Trust me. Since there are a limited number of people who know that this finger was sent to Fuentes—”
She held up her right hand. “One, Vic Maitlin. Two, the person who cut it off.” She held up her third finger. “Three, you. Four James. And five, Rick Fuentes.”
“Seven.” I was the business major, math was my strong suit.
“Seven?”
“Seven that we know of. You. And Fuentes’s girlfriend, this little nineteen-year-old blond.”
“Un-fucking believable.” I’d never heard her use that word in my life. “And it gets worse?”
“Fuentes asked us to find Vic.”
“You said no.”
“Actually,” I gave James a nod.
“Actually, I said yes.”
“Are you crazy? Have you completely lost your minds?”
“He’s paying us $5,000. And he claims to know where Vic is. He just wants confirmation.
“You are crazy. You’re both idiots. I simply gave you a lead for a little job and you’ve got yourself involved in a what? An international incident? Dismemberment? You’re nuts. I don’t even know you.” She glared at me, bending down, and picking up shards of green bottle.
I leaned over and helped.
“Here.” She held up her finger, a thin line of blood running down her hand. “Now I’ve cut my—” She stared at the blood then walked into the condo leaving James and me in the warm Miami night.
We finished picking up the pieces.
“Are you happy with all the advice she’s given you so far?”
“Fuck you. How would you expect her to react? I’d rather have her know than not. I don’t think Emily is someone I want on my bad side.” A ship horn sounded and echoed over the bay.
“I’ve always been on her bad side.”
She walked back onto the balcony, a Band-Aid on her finger. Stepping to the railing, she looked out at the water. Lights glimmered as far as you could see.
“You know where Vic is?”
“We know where his father thinks he is. All we’re supposed to do is sit outside and see if there is any sign of him. In twenty-four hours we report back to Fuentes.”
“It doesn’t sound difficult, not even particularly dangerous.”
James smiled at me. “And I didn’t think that sounded like bad work for five grand.”
“But we are talking about people who cut off fingers and threaten lives. I am still amazed that you guys could get in so much trouble in such a short amount of time.”
We both stared at the tile floor, watching the beer settle into the discolored grout.
“Tomorrow is Sunday.” She never looked at us but kept staring out at the water. “I don’t work, Skip doesn’t work, what about you, James?”
“No Cap’n Crab tomorrow.”
“All right. What if the three of us keep an eye on this place tonight and tomorrow. We can use my car and your truck and alternate. We’ve got our cell phones if one of us sees anything, and we’ll call Fuentes either way.”
James let out a deep breath. “I’m surprised. I actually think that’s a good idea. We can go over there now, and a couple of us sleep while one watches the property. I knew this was going to work.”
Em turned around and gave James a hard look. “I didn’t take a cut on your hauling job. You guys worked hard for that.”
“Thanks. We appreciate that.” James smiled at her.
She didn’t return the smile. “I’m taking a third of this.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE AREA KNOWN AS LITTLE HAVANA isn’t too far from Em’s condo. The address Fuentes had given us was just a couple of blocks from American Airlines Arena, the sprawling building where the Miami Heat play. It’s almost forty concrete steps up to the entrance of the arena, and once you get inside you can climb twice that many steps and stand at the top for ten bucks. With a pair of binoculars you can almost make out the game.
Next door, in the shadow of the old stone Trinity Episcopal Cathedral, is Bicentennial Park, an overgrown brick terrace that leads down to what once had been a fountain. A handful of anemic palm trees surround the pitted, broken bricks that line the once proud structure, and flattened cardboard boxes litter the ground where a homeless community spends its nights. It’s not a safe area.
Passing the park, Em took a right and two lefts. I was surprised when she pulled up to the structure. It looked like an office building. All Fuentes had given us was an address, and we’d figured it was a house. You’d keep a hostage in
a house. This was no house. Two stories, stucco and brick with a gray steel door and two lower story windows that appeared to be painted black. The upper windows had curtains or drapes drawn across them and there was no sign of any light. A small, paved parking lot ran alongside the building connecting it to a closed restaurant. Castero and Sons. I suddenly realized how hungry I was. James used to make a pork sandwich, with tomato and his own anchovy mayonnaise between two pieces of thick, buttered, and grilled Cuban bread. I could have eaten one of those right now.
Two late-model Chevys were parked in the back. As we coasted by I saw the small sign above the front door.
CUBAN SOCIAL CLUB
I was in the T-Bird with Em.
“We can park half a block away and see just about anything from the front.” Em parked the ’Bird. James had pulled ahead a block and called me on his cell phone.
“Hey, pard. Where do you want me?”
“There appears to be an alley that runs behind the place. If there’s a rear entrance someone should probably watch that.”
I saw him drive the truck down one street then pull into the alley.
“There’s a door at the rear.”
I told Em.
“Well, have him watch that and we’ll rotate. One person sleeps, while the other two watch the front and back.”
I told him it was my idea. He’d never go for it if he knew it was hers.
James took first watch of the alley, Em from the front. I was supposed to sleep for the first three hours. It’s eleven o’clock at night and we’ve all had one of the craziest days in our lives. We’re on an honest to God stakeout, and I’m supposed to sleep? Oh, I’m sure that around three in the morning, when it’s my shift, I’ll be ready to crash, but not now.
“There’s something I was going to talk to you about—” Em shifted in her seat and didn’t say anything else.
“What?”
“Tomorrow, when this thing is over, we need to discuss a couple of things.”
“Don’t do this, Em. You know my imagination will make up all kinds of stories and it’s better if you tell me now.” She pressed the same buttons with me that I pressed with her.
