1 Red Right Return

by John H. Cunningham

  “I didn’t. Maybe you should come meet with me and CGIS at 5:00.”

  “Got to run, but keep this confidential, Killelea might be upset that I shared the information before he could.” I wiped the sweat off my forehead. Frank Nardi was not going to be happy if I ever saw him at Douglas Community Center again.

  Now I was lying to the Coast Guard. More incentive for Booth to grab me. A phrase popped into my head that dated back to my boxing days: stay off the ropes. I sprang to my feet, dashed into my room, and pulled the duffle bag from under my bed.

  Could the Feds have learned something about #1 Obrapia? If spotting the boat in Havana was the only hard evidence, along with the bomb on Betty, and we both disappeared, what would happen to their case?

  Going public about the boat’s being afloat would throw a wrench into whatever angle Booth was working. But it would be a Go Directly to Jail and Don’t Pass Go move, especially if the Feds were using this as the rationale, with the real concern being the Cuban biochem pact with Iran. Breaking the law or disobeying an FBI agent was unfortunately not new to me. My Cardinal Rule of not getting arrested was going the way of the Great White Buffalo.

  The digital clock read 4:50. I grabbed my last seven hundred bucks from the back of my underwear drawer. I felt a deranged glee at the sound of the front door closing behind me. Booth would shit bricks when he found out I’d vanished, and being forced to tell Washington that their case against Cuba had flown the coop would wipe that shit-eating grin off the face of ambition.

  67

  ON THE ELEVATOR RIDE down, I thought about what to tell Karen. Our evening at Seven Fish, and her staking out El Aljibe looking for captive chickens were etched in my mind. So was seeing her with Gutierrez.

  The elevator door opened, and Karen was standing in front of me.

  “There you are!” Her voice was an urgent whisper. “You didn’t answer your phone, I knew you were here—”

  “You spying on me too?” I stepped off the elevator.

  “Special Agent Booth from the FBI’s in the lobby. I wouldn’t—”

  “Here? Now?” Was this it? Am I getting arrested? I peeked around the corner. Booth was standing next to the concierge desk looking at tourist brochures. He was alone.

  “How’s your head?” She reached up and touched the lump, then her eyes flashed to my duffel. “Where are you going?”

  “Listen, Karen, I need your help.” I pushed my bag toward her. “Can you take this stuff and—”

  “Whoa, flyboy, mind telling me what’s going on?”

  “You read about the bomb on my plane, right? Special Agent Booth wants to impound it as evidence, in which case I may never see it again. Not only that, but I’ve got a lead on the missing missionary boat, and—”

  She held up her hands. “Follow me.”

  She pressed the button and the elevator doors reopened. Once inside, she pressed another button and the doors in the back opened into the bowels of the hotel.

  “You weren’t kidding about a life of adventure, were you?”

  “Or a beauty to rescue,” I said.

  “What?”

  I forgot that I had hedged on that third goal at our dinner.

  “Buck, I need to talk to you about something.”

  “I promise I’ll give you every detail for your novel.”

  “That’s what you think this is about?” Her face contorted into an expression I’d never seen in her. “Is that all you think I care about?”

  “I can’t talk now, Karen. Can you meet me at Margaritaville in an hour?”

  “You’re hiding at Margaritaville?”

  “Buffett’s in town for a surprise show—”

  “You’re going to—”

  “No, he called me about Betty, and—”

  “You know Jimmy Buffett?” Her face twisted more with each question.

  “I really need to run, but will you meet me?”

  “The festival starts in two days, we have a director’s meeting in a couple of hours. You’re not going to jail, are you, Buck Reilly?”

  That was the question of the day. “My rent’s paid in advance.” She didn’t smile. “I’m just going…fishing.” Her eyes welled up and my heart somersaulted in my chest. I dropped the backpack and took her shoulders in my hands. “Will you meet me?”

  She nodded, her face so close to mine. The urge to kiss her was overwhelming, but she eased out of my grip and looked from my bags to me.

  “Margaritaville in an hour. Go, leave through the back hall.”

  “If I do that Booth will get suspicious.”

  “Leave your gear, then.”

  She shooed me back through the elevator. This was a huge gamble. I strolled into the lobby, whistling. Booth turned and I stopped, my tune cut short.

  “What are you doing here?” I held my breath.

  “Keeping my eye on you, Reilly, making sure you don’t bug-out like you did at e-Antiquity.”

  I exhaled. “Jimmy Buffett’s in town for a show at Margaritaville. Even you might enjoy that.”

  He frowned and I walked out the side door before he could muster his typical scathing response. For once, the high road worked. I just hoped it wasn’t a dead-end with a cliff. Nardi had almost blurted out where the boat was registered, but I’d blown it. With eight hundred Bahamian islands, it didn’t make sense to go searching until I narrowed the field.

  The FBI pilot would arrive at dawn, so time was short, and getting shorter. My guess was that Booth intended a simultaneous raid to arrest me then too. I couldn’t return to the La Concha, and my options were dwindling fast. Answers were no longer enough, I needed results.

  68

  THE DEAD DOG STENCH in the Rover forced my head out the window. I parked on Thomas and hustled into Blue Heaven. Thankfully the usual welcoming committee was absent. Lenny watched me as I scanned the restaurant for anybody who might be staking out my haunts.

  “You rob a bank, or something?” he said.

  “Booth was waiting in the La Concha lobby. My guess is he’s trying to figure out if I know they’re impounding Betty. Smug bastard must think tomorrow’s his next big step up the ladder, boosted off my back.” I withheld my other fears.

  “I still say we stomp him.” “Let me have your phone.”

  Lenny lifted the old black rotary phone onto the counter. I dialed the airport.

  “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Floyd isn’t here,” the operator said.

  My watch showed 5:20. “Did you see him leave?”

  “Ray leaves every day at five—”

  “Can you check, please, he was waiting for my call?”

  Her icy reply indicated omnipotent knowledge, but the next voice was Rays.

  “Yo, Buck?”

  “Can you do me a favor and stick my fishing gear and kayak inside the plane?”

  “Why?”

  “And pull down the police-line tape?”

  Silence followed on the line. “What the hell you thinking?”

  “I’ll owe you, Ray.” My list of IOU’s was growing like Jack’s beanstalk.

  Lenny handed me a highball glass of amber liquid on the rocks. “Liquid courage, man.” The rum burned my throat. “Word is Gutierrez has something heavy coming down on Enrique,” Lenny said.

  “I haven’t been able to connect Enrique to this mess.” I took a gulp of the rum. “Time to get off the ropes.”

  “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Flying by the seat of my pants, brother.” I drained the glass, a no-no before what I had planned. “One last thing? Tell everyone you know that Buffett’s doing a show at Margaritaville tonight.”

  “That cracker’s in town? Another shitty night at Blue Heaven.”

  I checked the sky, then spotted the antique boxing gloves that hung from a nail. Shit! Tomorrow was my date with Bruiser Lewis.

  69

  LIGHTHEADED FROM THE RUM, I felt my confidence mounting. Flagler led me to A1A and Stock Island. On the southern side of the
highway was a hodgepodge of tradesmen’s shops, third-tier retail, late night bars, mini-marts, decrepit marinas, remnants of the shrimp fleet, and a maze of trailer homes. I drove fast through the labyrinth of hurricane bait, and had to brake for some kids on bikes before I spotted the rusted Bronco nestled in overgrown bushes.

  The funky painted eyeball on the side of the trailer stared me down.

  Enrique’s voice had been insistent on the machine. It was time to find out what he really knew about the double-crossing and manipulation. His door opened before I knocked. Enrique’s mass filled the narrow space. He stood aside while two men with machetes patted me down.

  “You stink, man.”

  “Somebody butchered a dog and stuck it in my Rover, complete with red candles and a love note. You know anything about it?”

  “Was it black?”

  “Mostly.”

  “That fits with all the other shit that’s happened. I was going to say someone’s using Santeria as the fall guy, but they use black dogs in Palo Mayombe rituals when they’re out for blood.”

  “Didn’t Rolle ask you to perform some sort of ritual?”

  “Yeah, but he’s just a pawn.”

  I pulled Barrett’s photos out of my breast pocket. “You know any of these guys?”

  Enrique fanned through them and shook his head. “Nope.” He stopped on the close-up of Shaniqua and made a guttural sound in his throat. “Except her.”

  “You never answered my question about her.”

  His attention lingered on the picture. “Wild thing? She’s a player.”

  “Why won’t anyone give me a straight answer about Shaniqua?”

  “There is no straight answer.”

  “Freak, wild thing, fine as wine, player….”

  “And a whole lot more.”

  “How about victim? Criminal? Conspirator?”

  “That’s not what I meant. She’s just a free spirit. Funny, crazy, but not that other shit. She’s the kind of lady make anybody feel good, know what I mean?”

  “Not exactly, but that’s more than anyone else has said.” I dug through the pictures until I found the one I wanted and put it in front of him. “How about these men?”

  He held the picture at arm’s length and squinted. “That guy has a restaurant, doesn’t he? Cuban one?”

  “How about the one in the blue shirt?”

  Enrique’s gaze was steady as he shook his head. “Don’t recall.”

  I bit my lip. “What about Gutierrez, is he into Santeria?”

  His laugh held no amusement. “Gutierrez is into cash, and that’s it. He came around a few times pretending to be interested in our religion, but he really wanted me to hook him up with some Santero artists. Then I heard he was talking shit about me, calling me a chicken-worshipper.”

  “What do you know about the stuff stolen from my plane?”

  He ignored me and continued through the pictures before stopping on a shot of Scar. He held it up to a candle. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  Enrique inhaled half the air in the trailer, held it, then blasted me with Dr. Pepper breath. “That’s the guy who was here. See his necklace?” I hadn’t noticed it before, but Rolle was wearing a small, beaded necklace. “Both Chango’s and Siete Rayos’s colors are red and white. But if this has a pendant with a two-headed axe, then it’s Chango’s weapon of choice. If it’s a ram’s head or has a horn, then it’s Siete Rayos’.”

  I was over the hocus-pocus mystique of the Orishas, but the expression in Enrique’s eyes showed he thought it significant.

  “So?”

  “Rolle’s a bad dude, that’s all. Stoned on the power of the sword. He won’t let anything get in the way of whatever he’s after.”

  I took the pictures back. An uncomfortable silence spread between us.

  “You called me,” I said. “Did you find something out about that statue?”

  Enrique sauntered into the TV room, the empty Dr. Pepper bottles were now gone and the soap operas turned off. He lowered himself into the Barcalounger and began to rub his temples.

  “Yeah, but that’s not why I called.” He hesitated. “We’re not supposed to turn against our own, but Rolle’s a nut, and based on all the bullshit fake ebó going down along with Gutierrez’s threats and the invasion crap, I need you to figure this out. And if there’s any chance Shaniqua Peebles is alive, well…”

  I bit my rum-laced tongue while he appeared to wrestle with his conscience.

  “I’ve prayed to Olodumare, my shells were cast and showed harmony, so…”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “The Carnival left Cuba a couple hours ago.”

  “How do you—”

  “I made some calls after you and the bondsman were here. This afternoon I got word the boat had just left.”

  “You know where’s it going?”

  He turned toward the back room, where he threw the bones down last time. “Only that it won’t be going back to Cuba.”

  “How about their cargo, or who was on board?”

  “All I know is that it left, that’s it.”

  When I checked my watch, I realized my hands were shaking. “You did the right thing calling me.”

  “As for this…” He pulled the nail-spiked clay figurine off his shelf. “It’s a doctor, judge, and priest, all mixed into one. They’re supposed to settle disputes. Where’d you find it?”

  “In my flight bag.”

  “Between the dove and this, I’d say someone wants to make your airplane crash.”

  “Don’t forget the Russian grenade. Does Siete Rayos use them too?”

  “That would be a secular approach.”

  I shook his hand and felt sweat on my own. “By the way, watch your ass, there’s a rumor that Gutierrez is planning something big against you.”

  Enrique’s eyes narrowed. “Be a shame for his gallery to burn down.”

  I ran from the tin can leaving Enrique stewing. The first time I met him I knew he was concerned about protecting the integrity of his religion. Assuming Santeros were a bunch of voodoo nuts was a natural conclusion based on my Anglo Saxon upbringing, but it seemed like he was trying to help. Or trying to shift the spotlight off Santeria.

  The Carnival had left Cuba. Would it come to Florida, and if so, where? I needed more information. Nardi was out in the Gulf, so if they came directly north, the Mohawk would nail their ass, but if not….

  Impervious to the lingering stench in my truck, I hauled ass through the dark streets and made my way back to A1A. Could the Cubans be sending the Carnival out to be scuttled, getting rid of Shaniqua and all ties to their involvement? They could have planted drugs or human cargo on board, blamed the entire mess on a misunderstanding, and accused the U.S. for unwarranted threats of aggression. Unless Enrique was lying and the boat was a cut-out, a feint to distract everyone.

  Darkness had nearly set in, which grounded me for the night. Since I wasn’t rated for Instrument Flight Rules, IFR would translate to Idiot Flying Rescue if I left to search now, especially with the nail figurine blessing my plane. I idled down Catherine Street, parked, then hop-scotched my way through the shadows until the patio was visible. I edged closer until I was hiding in the same pygmy palms where I’d spotted Karen.

  Four different blue guayabaras circulated around tables, but there was no sign of Emilio. Posada alternated from hugging arriving customers to yelling commands at his staff. Twenty minutes later, I left for the Rover. My lust to find the waiter and combine retribution with discovery was denied. Posada had either fired Emilio or had him hidden.

  There was still one avenue to try. Duval Street was swollen with a mob of Parrotheads partying pre-concert style near Margaritaville. For the die-hards it would be a night dreams were made of. The pilgrimage to Key West, and Jimmy performing at the restaurant that bore the name of their Nirvana, even if it was a politically charged Party for Peace.

  Unlike last night, the front door of the San Carlos Institu
te was bolted tight. Damn. I continued toward the crowd, a moth drawn to the flame-thrower.

  70

  SCOTT WASHINGTON, BUFFETT’S 6’8” FULL-TIME bodyguard, was helping Drew the doorman handle the crowd. “The show won’t start for two more hours, people.” He spotted me and said, “Hey, Buck, why you so early?” Washington nodded to me, apparently remembering our few brief encounters.

  “Bubba asked me to meet him here.”

  Drew ushered me inside. PARTY AT THE END OF THE WORLD blared over the speakers, all but drowned out by the boisterous crowd. Karen waved from a booth in the back. I squirmed through the compressed bodies and dropped onto the bench like a sardine squirted from a can. Karen’s expression was serious. I slid in close.

  “Your stuff’s in the kitchen.”

  “You okay?”

  “That FBI agent cornered me and asked a bunch of questions. He wanted to know if you’d said anything about leaving town, so I lied. I told him you’d prepaid six months of rent. That guy’s got the eyes of a rat.” She glanced around the room as she spoke. I regretted putting her in the middle of my mess, but… she lied for me?

  “Hey, stranger.”

  Garrett, Margaritaville’s manager, stood over us. We shook hands and he had the worried expression of someone whose boss was making a surprise visit.

  “Is Bubba upstairs?” I nodded toward the office over the stage.

  “Naw, he’s having dinner at Louie’s. He’ll be here in about an hour.”

  “Do me a favor? Tell him I stopped by, and everything’s fine.”

  “Will do.”

  “I still can’t believe you know Jimmy Buffett,” Karen said.

  “Long story.”

  “You’re full of long stories.”

  Cerebral lightning struck out of the blue. “MUDDHOUSE! The doctor who set John Wilkes Booth’s leg was Samuel Mudd!”

  “You’ve got lunatics clubbing you over the head, the FBI staking out the hotel, and you’re doing crossword puzzles?”

  “Dr. Mudd was imprisoned here in the Keys—at Fort Jefferson.”