by Jim Johnson
Soon a blue blaze ripped across the spilled alcohol and onto the curtains and fabric of the furniture.
Tommy was satisfied it would burn the house down. The outside of the house was stucco over concrete block and the roof was Spanish style red barrel tile. The insides would burn fine and ignite all the rafters, plywood, and likely the underlying tar paper. It would make a fine conflagration.
He hurried outside and hustled into the truck. He jammed it into gear and powered out of the drive and down the road. The transmission or something was protesting all the abuse, but Tommy kept the tach over the redline.
Approaching the turn for the road off the island, he saw police paralleling him on the access causeway. Tommy slowed, trying to look normal. He turned onto the exit lane to the bridge and drove at moderate speed over the bridge. Elmer’s golf cart was nudged askew against the butt of the guardhouse.
Two police cars were slowing to a stop.
Tommy glimpsed a tendril of smoke in his right outside mirror.
He didn’t know if the exit gate would open on demand or if Elmer had to actuate it. He drove sedately toward it, slowed almost to a stop and it rose as if by magic.
Thanks, Elmer, he thought.
Elmer was standing in the sentry position at the door of the guardhouse gesticulating wildly and yelling at the cops. Sirens were silenced but the lights on the light bars were still going strong. Tommy averted his gaze and put his left arm up through the open window to obscure a view of him and his profile. Then he realized that would be singular in itself: anybody who didn’t look would become immediately suspect. So he turned and stared, hoping they weren’t watching.
On the other hand, he didn’t care. He had to find María Elena and do so quickly. The only other person he knew about who was involved in this thing was Don Diego García. The son of a bitch wouldn’t be in the phone book.
Tommy turned right on the causeway since it was easier than waiting for traffic to turn left. A nice column of smoke had begun rising behind stately queen palms lining the island. With cell phones and instant communication, they’d start digging and find out what was happening and soon formulate a plan. This, Tommy admitted, was better than he had.
He needed information. He needed a starting point. And he knew he had maybe less than a day. It could be that all this unwanted attention would drive García and his cronies out of hiding and perhaps scare them out of the country. If so, that action would issue a death sentence to María Elena. Briefly he cursed himself for allowing her to go in to the house alone. But Eduardo Quinones had been a long time associate of her father’s and he was María Elena’s godfather. Tommy decided he wasn’t going to solve these questions by himself right now. He had to press on, to take the offense.
An hour later, midday, he pulled into the small parking lot next to ROSEY’S BAR. The outside of the building was grubby and it was on the edges of the Little Havana district in Miami. As he walked away from the truck, he saw fluid leaking beneath it. Not much, but it would get worse. He’d blown a seal somewhere along the way.
The old fashioned glass door was propped open and Tommy walked out of the daylight into the dark. There was a small wood dance floor centered in the room.
Just past the dance floor rose a small stage where a band played sometimes; and on that stage to one side stretched a stainless steel pole from floor to ceiling; it looked more like aluminum and should be in a fire station. On the opposite side of the room ran a bar the entire length of that wall. A couple of dozen tables were peppered about.
Apparently, the place had just opened as none of the usual noon crowd was here yet. The empty bar fueled an atmosphere of mustiness and smoke which would air out from the breeze through the open door. This was one of the few places which took the hit from the law: most places in Florida were, by law, smoke free. Only some with outside venues were exempt.
His eyes now accustomed to the dark, found Rosey at the pass-through of the bar against the far wall. Raven haired, tall at maybe six one, busty, big wide smile, forty-something, bright red lipstick. She was talking on her cell phone standing in a pool of light from a Budweiser lamp hanging from the ceiling.
Rosey saw him, clicked off, and yelled, “Tommy!” She rushed over and gave him a big hug and a kiss. He was a reluctant participant. She linked an arm through his and walked him to the bar under the Bud light.
“How’s it going, Rosey?”
She eyed him. “Lookin’ good, hon. Long time no see. How about a quickie?”
“I can’t right now,” said Tommy and averted his eyes. He felt crimson creeping up his neck.
Rosey clapped her hands and chanted, “Tommy’s in love, Tommy’s in love!”
Tommy shrugged self-consciously.
“Who is she? She must be beautiful?”
“Well, um, she is.”
“Oh, Tommy, you cad.”
“It ain’t like that, Rosey. Listen, I need to find Don Diego García.”
She pursed her full lips. “He’s one mean son of a bitch, Tommy. You don’t want anything to do with him.”
“Oh, but I do.” He couldn’t hide the vehemence in his voice.
“Oh, shit. Not her? The old man’s daughter?”
Tommy shrugged. “It’s about her, Rosey. I gotta find her. He’s got her and he’ll kill her.”
“Damn, Tommy, it must be real love.”
“Help me find him, Rosey.”
“I don’t know where he is, he doesn’t check with me. I heard he has a big condo up in Lauderdale on the beach someplace.”
“Ft. Lauderdale? Let me use your phone for a minute.”
She slid the cell phone toward him on the bar.
Tommy punched in a number.
A deep male voice answered. “This is Pat Tanyan.”
“Hello, Pat. It’s Atkins.”
“Tommy?”
“Yeah. Listen, I’m real sorry about your cabin burning down.”
“You disappeared. They saw you drive away.”
“I had to. A bunch of militia guys were trying to kill me.”
“The cabin is no loss. We did not even want rent money from you anymore. But trying to kill a man such as you…”
“They were. A group called 13 de enero.” Tommy watched Rosey visibly flinch. “A Cuban anti-revolutionary group taken over by thugs.”
“I don’t know them.” Tanyan sighed and Tommy envisioned him tapping tobacco into a pipe. “When you left, they told me all hell broke loose. Soon there were helicopters and volunteer fire teams, and game wardens, and likely some school crossing guards, too. Oh, and more feds than feathers on a chief’s headdress.”
Uh, oh. “You ever heard of Don Diego García?” He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice.
Pat thought a moment. “No. He ain’t no Seminole.”
“He’s supposed to live in a fancy condo on Lauderdale beach.”
“That narrows it down to a few thousand units.”
Tommy shook his head. “Thought I’d give it a shot, Pat. Thanks anyway. About the cabin?”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t find him,” Tanyan said. “I just said I ain’t ever heard of him.”
“What do you mean, Pat?”
“Having little else to do, I am the president of the board of the condo owners’ association in this building, Tommy. As such, I’ve contact with other condo associations up and down the beach, a kind of informal thing. We have an online data base of tenants for many of the different condominiums. Just a second, I’m cranking up my desktop.” Tanyan whistled a tune Tommy knew as something called “The Tomahawk Chop.” “Here you go. Got him. Jeez, that’s top end.”
“What do you mean?”
“That condo and those in that building are more expensive than this one. That’s very heavy hitting. It has an Olympic size pool, security at a reception desk, marble in a fancy lobby, that kind of stuff.”
“Great. Let me grab a pen.” He slid onto a barstool.
Rosey slid a bar Bi
c toward him and turned over a Budweiser napkin for him.
Tommy wrote as Pat read off the details. It was a thread to María Elena. It might not pan out, but it was all he had. He didn’t have time to cruise the Cuban section, a stranger asking questions. “Thanks a million, Pat. You don’t know what this means to me.”
“Anything for you, Tommy, anytime. Don’t forget, you owe me a cabin.”
“Sure, I—”
“Did you say militia? And you are going looking for this García guy? You are not telling me you are going hunting?”
“I’m not saying anything specific, Pat. But be advised this guy is why your cabin got burned down.” Not admitting he did it, but what he said was true. Technically, Don Diego was at fault.
“You best be careful, my friend. Alice would never forgive me if anything happened to you on my watch.”
“Give her my best, Pat. Thanks again.”
Tommy closed the cell and handed it back to Rosey.
She’d been listening to his side of the conversation. “It’s nice to know people,” she said. “It is your intention to take on Don Diego and his minions?”
He nodded. “I got no choice.”
“Tommy maybe you need to reassess. Stay with me tonight. Stay alive.”
“I can’t.” He slipped off the barstool. “Gotta go. Thanks for your help.”
“I’ll never see you again, will I?”
Tommy grinned. “You’ll get over it.”
She smiled back. “Damn straight. Don’t mean I gotta like it.” She grabbed him and hugged him hard. “Take care, Tommy. You’re too good a man to lose.”
“Thank you, dear.” He unpeeled her arms and turned and went down the bar and out the door.
An hour later, he wheeled the Nissan into McAllister’s circular drive once again. The transmission had been slipping.
The Lexus and the boat were missing from the double garage. The Harley with the Autolinx kit and the pickup were occupying the space. McAllister must have been waiting for him or heard him pull into the driveway. He stepped out of the front door and said something to somebody inside and closed the door.
As Tommy got out of the Nissan, McAllister said, “You’re late.”
“Give me the money.”
“I couldn’t raise it all,” McAllister said nervously.
Tommy moved so that the big man was between him and the house. “If you have a friend inside with a weapon, you need to know that I will kill you first, then him next.” He stared at the big man. “Your move.”
“I, um, sold the Lexus at a big loss. Couldn’t find a buyer for the boat, so I used it as collateral for a loan.” He looked down at his bandaged and splinted right thumb.
“You got a savings account? Checking?”
“Naw, I’m kind of cash strapped right now.”
“Give me what you got, McAllister.”
McAllister handed Tommy a folded over grocery bag from Publix Supermarket. “Forty grand.”
“Less than half.”
“Best I can do.”
“You still got a Harley and a pickup. And I know you held out on me. You should have sold the other vehicles.”
“I need something for my family.”
Tommy spoke as the thought struck him. “You should also have plenty of money from the sale of the business.”
“No, I don’t, mister. I ain’t a good money manager and I barely covered what I owed.”
Tommy held out his hand. “You’re lying.” A man like McAllister would never turn loose of all the cash right away. But Tommy had no time to screw with him. “Give me the keys to your motorcycle.”
Surprise etched across McAllister’s face. “I can’t do that, I…”
Tommy took a step closer and McAllister saw the edge of Tommy’s boiling rage escape from his eyes. McAllister stepped back and dug into his pocket. He handed Tommy keys on a ring.
Tommy wheeled the motorcycle alongside the Nissan, which put the 4X4 between them and the street. He gave McAllister the keys. “Get me the rest of the money; I’ll be back. When you get the money, I want you to take it all down to the Rape Crisis Center and give it to them. Get a signed letter of receipt. When I return, I want to see that letter. And if you’re smart, you’ll dump this pickup and make sure there’s no link to you, understand?”
“It’s hot?” He was bewildered trying to understand Tommy.
“Cops will know you didn’t buy it or just find it. I’m being nice to you because you’re a family man.”
Tommy removed the top of the Autolinx carrier and pulled out a golf bag full of clubs. He tossed that aside and opened the door to the Nissan. He uncovered his weapons and stuck them into the vertical carrier.
McAllister’s eyes went wide. “You gonna start a war?”
“Something like that.” He put the cash and a couple of handguns in a saddlebag.
“Jesus.”
Tommy found a helmet in the garage. Florida laws allowed motorcyclists to ride without a helmet; however, the real smart guys wore them. He’d read somewhere that the largest source of organ donations came from motorcyclists. He also didn’t want to be recognized. There was a brand new leather jacket hanging off the mirror of McAllister’s pickup. Tommy pulled that on; doubtless he’d paid for the damn thing anyway. And it would help conceal some handguns here shortly.
He pulled the helmet on and dropped the sun shield. Without another word, he gunned the motorcycle and burned out of the driveway and down the road. He had to know the capabilities of the bike. Then he slowed back to the speed limit. No need to attract any local traffic cops.
He’d already studied maps and knew where Don Diego García’s condominium was. He drove straight there. It was an imposing building with three towers. Apparently residents parked on an enclosed bottom floor, and guest parking was in a large parking lot in front of the building. It had a circular driveway running under a portico. Hoity toidy, thought Tommy.
The more he looked the more convinced he became that María Elena wouldn’t be here. But this was his only lead, at least locally. If he could find García, he could use the man as a hostage to get her back. The only other place he could think to look was the 13 training acreage, somewhere to the west out in the swamps and palmetto plains.
One thing at a time. He parked out on the street, facing out, behind a van. Relatively concealed, he slid his automatic under his new jacket and another automatic into a jacket pocket. He took a couple of extra magazines, just in case. Most of the time he only needed one weapon and a lot of extra ammo. Often it was easier to drop a magazine and slap another in than drag out another handgun, which, of course, had different shooting characteristics.
He walked into the parking lot and saw a couple go in. They slid a key card through a scanner. Well, he could follow someone in. To stall, he bent to tie his shoe behind a BMW. This time he had a shoe to fake tying; he wasn’t wearing his usual boots, but light Nikes. If you might have to move quickly, heavy boots aren’t the right footwear. And while Nikes didn’t kick as well as heavy boots, he could make up for that by being faster with his feet.
A UPS truck pulled up through the entranceway with plenty of clearance.
Tommy stood up and walked quickly toward the door. The brown uniformed lady was waving to someone inside and the door opened and she walked in and the door closed before Tommy could get there without running. Maybe he could have another opportunity when the UPS driver left. But, Tommy saw the lady disappear down a corridor.
Then he stopped to tie his shoe again. He was violating all his hard-learned training. He should have scouted around the building and the neighborhood for a couple of hours until he knew all of the roads and the nuances of the area. However, his sense of urgency was overwhelming. He shook his head physically. As soon as you get an emotional involvement, your professionalism goes away. God damn it! He’d always avoided personal attachments. He smiled grimly to himself. Oh, well, she was worth it. Hell, she was worth anything. Once he’d emba
rked on this journey, he’d given up, without articulating it exactly, any hope of living through this. That was a major reason he had tried to not become involved with María Elena; for once he’d scoped out what was going on, he saw a huge need for his talents and as a compliment, likely his own untimely death.
Once more to die, Tommy Atkins, once more to die.
However, it was his full intention to live through this to get María Elena out of trouble. Except now, he had another couple of reasons to live: there were at least two people who needed to die, and Tommy vowed to be the instrument of their demise. And hopefully, sooner rather than later.
Two attractive women were walking under the overhang heading for the door. He cursed himself for failure to pay attention. Pay attention, Atkins, he told himself. This is not the time for your mind to wander.
Quickly he got to his feet a second time and wandered slowly toward the door. From behind, the two women were well worth following.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: HER
María Elena hurried across the driveway and was enveloped in Eduardo’s comforting arms.
“Come in, my child.” The old man glanced at Tommy in the truck.
She didn’t say anything, but allowed Eduardo to usher her inside. He seemed older than she remembered. A classic patrician moustache and long gray hair, Eduardo Quinones presented a formidable appearance. And he was as a well known barrister and Cuban-exile advocate, he’d become a local legend. Her father, mother, and Eduardo had been the original members of 13 de enero. And Eduardo had naturally become her godfather. She knew that back in his day, he’d been tall and handsome, not that he was no longer such, just that then he’d been dashing and always around. His wife had died years ago; thus one of her own names, Alejandrina.
Eduardo continued to usher her down the hallway. “Who’s that man in the truck? Where have you been? Do you know what kind of trouble you’re in?”
This did not match his words during their brief phone conversation when she’d called from Orlando International. She wondered what had changed. Should she have checked in sooner?
