Stuff to Die For

by Don Bruns

  “No. I shouldn’t have said anything. Tomorrow, I promise. Get some sleep.”

  Parked on the street, we watched the occasional car drive by, but traffic was almost nonexistent on this side of town. No restaurants, bars, or any sign of social life. James called about twelve-thirty just to make sure we were still there.

  “Are you going to tell Jackie?” I asked her.

  “Do you think I should?”

  “Somebody should. She’s involved even though she doesn’t know.”

  “Yeah. I wish I had some coffee.”

  “You’d just have to pee in half an hour.”

  “How do cops do it? Stakeouts and thermoses of coffee?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they piss in the thermos when it’s empty.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Pretty small target for a female cop, don’t you think?”

  I hadn’t thought about it. How would I know?

  The sharp knock on the window scared the hell out of both of us.

  “Jesus!”

  A bright white light shot into the car, blinding me. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Roll down your window, please.” A heavy Spanish accent.

  “Em, start the car.”

  She turned the key and the engine roared to life.

  “Ma’am, I’m a police officer. Please turn off the vehicle and roll down the window.”

  “Let me see some ID.”

  He shone the light on an official looking silver badge. Em looked at me for approval, and I shrugged my shoulders. She cautiously rolled the window down about a third of the way.

  “Is there a reason the two of you are parked here on the street at this time in the morning?”

  We turned and looked at each other. Em glanced back at the shadow outside her car window.

  “We were making out.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Making out. He was trying to talk me into something beyond just kissing.”

  “Move on. I don’t want to see the two of you here again. Understand?”

  She shifted into drive and slowly pulled away.

  “Was that a cop?”

  She inched ahead, not making a lot of progress.

  “Well, was it?”

  “Shut up. I’m watching the rearview mirror. I want to see what he does.”

  I shut up as she inched ahead, turning at the next street and coasting down the avenue until she came to the alley. She pulled in, driving behind the parking lot with the two Chevys, and she stopped just before she reached the two-story building.

  We could see beyond the front of the building, where the cop had been. There was no sign of any police car and no sign of the man.

  “Shit. I was hoping we’d see where he went.”

  My cell phone played “Born in the USA” and I grabbed it. Let it ring for twelve seconds and I swear I pay for another two or three minutes. I’ve got to get another cell plan.

  “Hello.”

  “Somebody just went into the rear entrance.” James was parked up about fifty feet.

  “Into?”

  “Into.”

  “James, where did they come out of?”

  “I have no idea. They went into the rear entrance. My guess is they pulled up in front.”

  Emily gave me a look, questioning my half of the conversation.

  “James says someone walked into the rear of the building, but he didn’t see them come out of that entrance.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “What did he look like?”

  James hesitated. “Well, he was pulling off a cap, but he was too far away to really get a good look.”

  Em watched, eager for information.

  “James says he was pulling off a cap. Could be the cop.”

  “Or not.”

  “Not?”

  “I don’t think he was a cop. It could be someone who is guarding the building. A security guard.”

  “He said he was a cop. I’m pretty sure he was. He showed us his badge.”

  “Badges are a dime a dozen. I don’t think it was a real cop.”

  I digested the idea. Security guards wore uniforms and displayed bright shiny badges. If Vic Maitlin was being kept hostage here, someone had to be watching him.

  “We had a cop come up to the car and tell us to keep moving.”

  “No shit? A cop?” After all that had happened this day, James still sounded surprised. Hell, we shouldn’t have been surprised at anything.

  “Em doesn’t think it’s a cop. She thinks it’s some guy in a uniform with a fake badge.”

  He was quiet.

  “James?”

  “So someone is already onto us?”

  “God, I hope not.”

  “Skip, I’ve got ten digits and I’d like to hang on to every one of them.”

  “James, it was your idea to get involved.”

  Em frowned. “I think it’s a little late for the blame game, Eugene. Tell your friend we’re going to drive around the block and find another place to park. Maybe he should watch the alley from a little farther up.”

  I passed on the information and we pulled out of the alley, went up two streets, cut back, and ended up on a side street where we could still see the front of the building. I could make out a row of concrete tables lining the sidewalk where old men played dominoes from early morning till the sun went down.

  “Em, what do we have to talk about tomorrow?”

  “There are times I wish I smoked.” She gazed out the window.

  “What?”

  “It gives you something to do. Purpose. Taking a drag on a cigarette, playing with the smoke, letting it stream out of your mouth. Blowing rings and tapping the ashes, it’s more the ritual than the actual smoking, isn’t it?”

  “You wish you smoked so you could do all that and not talk about whatever it is you want to discuss.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Serious?”

  “Could be.”

  “Are you thinking about us not seeing each other any more?” I thought about it a lot. She was too good for me, and I’m sure it crossed her mind from time to time.

  In the dim light I could see her smile as she leaned over and gave me a kiss on the lips. “No. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  I leaned back and drifted off. I had just hit sleep mode and was lazily watching a fishing stream with trout and bass that became our muddy ditch, and James was casting this huge garbage can lure into the brackish water when the world exploded.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I HEARD IT, I FELT IT, and I saw it as my eyes flew open. The upstairs windows exploded in a blast of shattered glass as a ball of fire roared out of the building. In less than a second the street in front was blazing with orange chunks of flame thrown from the stucco and brick building, and we watched spellbound as a brilliant blaze shot into the black Miami sky, the inferno engulfing the structure.

  Em started the car and peeled out.

  “Where the hell are we going?” Talk about feeling the heat. I was sweating from fear and the intense fire from half a block away.

  “Anywhere. We’ve got to get out of this.”

  James. “Jesus, James was back in the alley.” I frantically dialed his cell phone. No answer.

  It rang and rang. Finally voice mail.

  “The person you have called is unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message and—” I hung up. I dialed again. Same thing.

  “Em, we’ve got to check out the alley.”

  “Skip, are you crazy? That fire is roaring back there.”

  She was three blocks down, moving at a good clip, and had run one stop sign already.

  “Em—”

  “Shit!” She spun the wheel, making a sharp U-turn in the middle of the deserted street. “Call 911.”

  “Yeah.” I did.

  She raced back the way we came, squealing to a stop as we saw the parking lot. The two Chevys were swallowed in flames. One had exploded and flaming pieces littered the
melting blacktop. I jumped from the car and ran toward the alley, tasting the thick smoke and holding my arm across my face, trying to keep from filling my lungs with the fumes from that noxious cloud. The fierce heat cooked my skin and I thought for a moment I might pass out. I hit the back alley on the run and stopped short, peering into the haze. White-hot flame spewed from the vehicle, more black smoke pouring into the alley. There was nothing I could do.

  I jogged to the T-Bird, coughing, gagging, and choking.

  “What?”

  “Jesus Christ, Em, it must be the truck. It’s a roaring inferno.” We could hear the sirens in the distance, whining with the occasional barking of the horns as they sped toward the blaze.

  “James?”

  All I could do was shake my head.

  “Skip, is there anything we can do?”

  There was nothing.

  She stepped on the gas and we went speeding down the street, as far away from the burning building, the incinerated truck, the uniformed man, and the fire engines as we could. I was leaving my best friend behind, and I had never felt so helpless.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD when my father left home. My sister was eight and Mom was thirty-two. I remember things about him, like he smoked Camels. He worked in a machine shop and Mom would sweep up metal shavings that he tracked into the house on a daily basis. I’m not sure why he walked out. I don’t think it was another woman because he didn’t remarry. For a while anyway. I remember he smelled like tobacco and he’d bring home red-hot candies and we’d eat them until our mouths burned.

  James was six months older than I, and I leaned on him as much as a twelve-year-old can lean on another twelve-year-old. I didn’t go home from school because the pain was too much to bear. I’d go to James’s house and Mom would end up calling, wondering where I was. I think she was glad I had a home away from home because it made life easier for her. One less problem in her life.

  James was the brother I didn’t have, the best friend that everyone should have, and an inspiration that encouraged me to reach farther than I probably would have. James was always there. Always.

  “Skip, I’m sorry. So sorry.” Em slowed down and pulled into a deserted parking lot a mile from the fire.

  “How the hell could a day turn into such a catastrophe? A little side venture, some extra money.”

  We could still hear the sirens in the distance as more engines came to the rescue. An orange hue lit up the sky and plumes of smoke climbed into the night, drifting over the neighborhood. I could smell the acrid odor in my clothes and hair. The ’Bird would smell like smoke for some time to come. I tried to push James from my mind, but it didn’t work.

  “We’ve got to go to the cops.”

  I nodded.

  “If Vic was in that building—” She trailed off.

  “If James was in that truck—”

  “And that’s why we’ve got to go to the police. Skip, this is my fault. I should have talked you guys out of this.”

  I gave her an icy stare. “Get over yourself. You couldn’t have talked him out of it if you’d tried, and I’d pretty much bought into it myself. You had nothing to do with it.”

  “James.” She rested her arms on the steering wheel, gazing out the windshield at the darkness. “God, I could have tried harder. I could have had a little more understanding, compassion.”

  “Born in the USA” chirped in my pocket. I grabbed the phone and flipped it open.

  “Skip?”

  “Oh, my God. James!”

  Em grabbed the phone from my hand and yelled into the mouthpiece. “You son of a bitch. Goddamn you to hell! Where the hell have you been?”

  So much for understanding and compassion. James was alive and things were back the way they had been.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ESTHER’S SITS ON TWENTY-SEVENTH in Carol City and doesn’t serve alcohol. So if you want a good meal and a drink, you’ve got to go to Chili’s. However, if you want some of the best home made grits, biscuits and gravy, sausage, baked chicken, or peach cobbler without a drink, Esther’s is your place.

  We sat in the vinyl and wood booth and looked out at the Kentucky Fried Chicken next door. It does strike me that most of the time we’re the only white people in the restaurant. Living in Carol City, an “urban” community as my friend Carl, the manager of Walgreens, calls it, I’m a minority. You get a good sense of how minorities feel in an all-white community when you live in Carol City.

  “So do we go to the cops or not?” I watched their faces, looking for signs of surrender. We were all set to tell everything we knew until James called. Now we weren’t sure.

  “You guys have a cop ask you to leave the area. I think I see who could be your cop go into the building. Five minutes later a cop car pulls up behind me with his light flashing—”

  “And why didn’t you call us about that?” Em frowned.

  “He gets out of the car, tells me to either leave or follow him to the station, and I was just pulling away when all hell broke loose. I was busy putting the pedal to the metal.”

  I sipped on my third cup of coffee. A heavy-set black lady in the next booth shoveled a heaping spoonful of red beans and rice into her mouth. “Are you sure it was a police car?”

  He thought for a moment. “No. But he had a bubble light on top.”

  “Could have been a security vehicle, or just a car with the light. You can buy those. Scott Morrissey had one, remember? Used to put it on his car and scare the hell out of the people making out at night down at Boynton Beach.”

  “Yeah.” James stared out the window.

  “So, James, do you think that car was the vehicle I saw that was on fire?”

  “I didn’t stick around to find out. If there was a vehicle burning in that alley, it might have been the same car.”

  I still smelled like smoke. I’d showered, put on clean clothes and still could detect the sharp pungent odor.

  Em frowned again. “Quit sniffing yourself. You’re fine.”

  “Do we go to the cops or not?”

  “Not.” James was adamant. Since his father’s arrest, he’s avoided cops at all costs.

  “Why not?”

  “Have we done anything wrong?”

  I pondered that. “Good question.”

  Em chewed on a piece of toast. “I’m sure we’ve broken the law somewhere.”

  “Where? I doubt there is a law that says you have to call the authorities when you find a finger. And I know that sitting outside the Cuban Social Club was not against the law. Moving belongings isn’t illegal. So where have we broken the law?”

  “All right, maybe we haven’t. But they’re going to want people to come forward who saw what happened.”

  James held his hand up. “Hold on, miss do-gooder. What exactly did you see? A fire. That’s all. We didn’t see how it started.”

  “How about the cop—or the phony cop. We could tell someone about that.”

  “I don’t think we’re obligated to do that. And I don’t want to cross Fuentes.”

  “Would the second installment on the five thousand dollars have anything to do with that?” Emily smirked. Somewhere between a smile and a frown.

  “I believe you cut yourself in on that, so we’ve all got something to lose.”

  She was quiet.

  “There’s one upside to this mess.” I’d been thinking about the positives. There weren’t many.

  “We don’t have a building to watch today.”

  They both shook their heads. James dragged a sausage through gravy and stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed it carefully. “So the question is, do we call Fuentes? We did our part, kept up our end of the bargain. Now we need to know where he stands.”

  We agreed. Fuentes needed a phone call, and they agreed I should make the call.

  James left to drive down the road to our humble abode. Em offered me a ride in the smoky T-Bird.

  “James is gone.” I looked into her eye
s. “What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

  She hesitated. “Nothing. Not right now. It’s something that can wait, okay?”

  “Em?”

  “Later.” She paid at the register and we drove back to the apartment in silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  WE SAT IN CHEAP PLASTIC CHAIRS on the cement slab. Em had a Sprite and even though it wasn’t quite 8 a.m. James and I had beers. The older couple behind us were nowhere to be seen, but the playpen was set up like always, with a faded blue blanket draped over one side.

  “I think it’s too early to call.”

  James tapped the phone on my lap. “We need to tell him before it makes the news.”

  I punched in the numbers and the little blond answered.

  “Hi, this is Skip Moore. Can I speak to Mr. Fuentes?” Moments later he came on the line.

  “Mr. Moore. Do you have news?”

  “Uh, yeah. Sort of.” I never did well in speech class. “We watched the building last night—”

  “And?”

  “And it caught on fire. It was a huge fire and—”

  The thick Cuban accent sounded like that guy from the old TV show, Fantasy Island. “Caught on fire? What do you mean caught on fire?”

  “It was more like an explosion.”

  “And the occupants?”

  “We seriously don’t know. We were approached by a policeman just before the building exploded, and he told us to leave the area.”

  Fuentes was quiet for a moment. Then, as if he were talking to himself he said, “So the fire was preplanned. They knew that I knew.”

  “Knew what, Mr. Fuentes? That Vic was staying there?”

  “Have you told anyone? That you were watching?”

  “No.” I glanced at the co-conspirators. “We haven’t said a word to anyone.”

  “Don’t. Do you understand? This entire incident—you looking for Vic—this must remain in strictest confidence.”

  “No problem.”

  “Mr. Moore, I can’t stress this enough. You could be in a lot of danger if you mention this to anyone. I’ll be in touch with you in the near future.” He hung up the phone and I sat there looking at the receiver, more confused than ever.