There was no championship series. I’d made it up.
I could have been a promoter like Don King, except without the crazy hair. The idea had come to me at Longboard’s, when I heard the golf on the television. Golf has no season; it runs more or less all year, depending on where the weather is good. But this means outside of the majors, there is no season winner, no champion. So they created one. Out of thin air, they just decided that the tournaments in the latter part of the US season would become playoffs, and at the end there would be a champion. It was forced, fake and fooled almost no one, but it gave golf fans and ESPN and the Golf Channel something to try to give a damn about. So I copied them and created the Jai Alai Championship Series. The best against the best. The fact it was the same guys anyone could see week in, week out at the fronton was beside the point. It would generate interest, and it would generate publicity.
And it would come to the attention of whoever was sending the threats.
After we had gotten rid of most of the flyers, we met back at the fronton. I had outlined the plan to Roto, who wasn’t that keen at first but warmed to it once I told him to send his family to Orlando for the weekend. The pelotari left to get ready for their performance, and Ron and I adjourned to the bar in the casino. I left a flyer with the bartender, who smiled and shook his head, then brought us drinks. I put some money down on the bar, but the bartender waved it away.
“Comped,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Ms. Almondson says so.”
Ron made his impressed face, and we clinked glasses. College football was on the television, University of Florida and some non-conference team they were going to murder, so I lost interest. Ron swiveled around to watch. I tore at a paper napkin and thought about what I was doing. It was a hunch, a ploy to drive whoever was behind all this bad stuff out from under their rock. I had been confident in the plan, happy we had covered the bases, that the best people were in place, and that we were ready if, or when, it went pear-shaped in some way.
But now, sitting in the dark bar, I couldn’t get my mind off Danielle. I had taken a similar risk before, beating the bushes to drive the bad guys out, thinking I was only risking myself. But Danielle had been caught in the middle. The bad guys had gone after her instead, on my blindside, and she had been shot and nearly killed. It weighed heavily on me, despite her constant reassurance that I wasn’t responsible. Since then, she had moved in with me—we said out of convenience, but I knew part of me wanted her close to protect her. Protect a law enforcement officer who could subdue a suspect twice her weight in a dozen different ways, and needed protecting like I needed to learn how to throw a curve ball. And since then, things had been good. Comfortable. We had fallen into a nice routine, spending time on the patio in the evenings she didn’t work, me taking fewer cases so I was there when she got home. We ran on the beach, not as regularly as we had, but enough, and we made love more than most. It was nice. It was comfortable. It was the home life I’d never had as a kid. And it was the reason I felt like I was losing her.
Ron spun around on his stool and banged his glass down. “Time?”
I nodded and left my beer, and we wandered back through the gaming floor to the fronton. A small crowd had gathered, maybe fifty people. Although the champion series was the following week, clearly our marketing blitz had brought in a few extras. Prior to the performance, Roto took the microphone from the zealous announcer and stood before the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, taking a gulp and looking my way with a sheepish frown. I nodded and gestured to keep going.
“Thank you for coming to tonight’s performance. As you may know, next week we will see our champions series, the best of jai alai in the world.”
The crowd gave a little applause, nothing to give you goose bumps, but something at least. Roto paused and looked to me again. I could see him sweating across his brow, his athletic frame seeming to shrink as he stood in the spotlight. English wasn’t his first language, so that accounted for some of the nerves. But this was the important part of the night, and I smiled as reassuringly as I could and nodded him on.
“My name is Roto. I am one of the pelotari, the players of jai alai, and I am responsible for promoting this event.”
There it was, and if the sniper’s crosshairs weren’t on him now, they never would be.
“I hope you join us for the championship series, and please tell your friends and family. We look forward to seeing the jai alai of old, here in West Palm next week.”
Another smattering of applause and Ron and I moved across the seating, handing out the last of the flyers. Roto had done well, had sold the thing even better than I’d hoped. But he had put himself in danger. The first two pelotari took the court and began play. Roto took his place on the bench and looked my way again. I gave him the thumbs up, and he gave me a tight smile, then turned and focused on the game.
After play, Roto showered and changed, then came back out to the fronton court and led me across the seating area to a rear door. We crept out the back, and I found myself on the gravel, where Lucas and I had our first run in with the Boston Irishmen. My rental car was waiting in the shadows just around the corner, where Ron had left it. Roto got in the backseat and lay down, then I pulled out and flashed my lights at Ron, who was sitting in Roto’s car. I pulled out south, to head down around the airport, then cut back up north to my place. Ron turned the other way, onto the island where he would hide Roto’s car in the secure lot below Cassandra’s apartment. If anyone went to do anything at Roto’s house tonight, they would find no one home, and anyone waiting for Roto in the shadows would have no idea where he had disappeared. I had thought about setting the trap tonight, but the kid at the marina told me Lucas wouldn’t be back from his boat delivery until the following day, and I needed him. Plus, I couldn’t be sure the bad guys would pick up the scent so fast. However, after the performance and the crowd the flyers had brought in, I doubted that. But it was fine to let them think on it a bit. When we offered the bait up for the taking, they would be all the more hungry.
Chapter Thirty-Two
THE NEXT DAY was Saturday, and with Roto’s family confirmed safe in a hotel at Disney World, we spent the day waiting. Julio wanted to come over, but we couldn’t be sure he wasn’t being followed, so we nixed the idea. Having slept fitfully in my spare room, Roto wore dark circles under his eyes at breakfast. I could see he was getting the jitters just sitting around waiting for the evening performance to come, so I decided to take a field trip.
I had received a call from my insurance agent to let me know that they had written off the SUV for insurance purposes, and I was free to replace the vehicle with something of equal value. She left me with the afterthought that as this was the third car they had replaced on my behalf, I had been reclassified as a high-risk client. I smiled at the thought, and wondered what kind of coverage Dale Earnhardt Jr. had.
Roto and I wandered along the dealerships at the nice end of Okeechobee Boulevard. Roto was quite the family man and conservative to boot, and he smiled and nodded at every minivan we went near. I had gone from a convertible Mustang to a hybrid Escape, and I wasn’t ready to drop into a minivan—as much as Ron would have laughed himself hoarse at the idea. We lingered a little too long at the Lamborghini dealership and skipped the Volvo place altogether. We took a used Porsche Boxster for a spin, and with the top down and the breeze whipping through my hair, I started to see myself in it. Roto wasn’t so impressed.
“It is only two doors,” he said.
“So?” I frowned.
“What happens when you want to have los bebes?”
I had nothing to say to that, so I walked away. In the end we occupied ourselves at CityPlace, where we wandered the mall, window-shopping, and I replaced my water-damaged phone.
By the time we were ready to head to the fronton, Roto’s hands were shaking so much I didn’t think he would be able to put on his cesta. We got in
the rental car and headed down A1A, checking my mirrors but seeing no one. Ron was en route from Palm Beach in Roto’s car, and Lucas had returned and was on board, heading north up I-95 as we moved south to the casino. I pulled into the lot and saw Ron standing by Roto’s ride, a very plain-looking sedan that he promised got excellent mileage, and I stopped right beside. Ron went in first, then Roto, and I took the rear. There was no one watching us, nothing suspicious to see, and Roto went and got changed for the performance without incident. Once inside, I was fairly confident nothing would happen. There was too much security now that Jenny had beefed it up, and outside the locker rooms there were cameras everywhere. Besides, the flyers had actually done something and the crowd was over a hundred strong. Even a news crew from the local affiliate had turned up.
Ron and I drank iced tea as we watched the performance, but we didn’t eat. I could tell he was as nervous as I was—and not just for Roto. We were all putting ourselves out now, and although it certainly made me feel alive, there was a twisted gut to go along with it. Roto managed to get his big woven basket on his hand, but he shouldn’t have bothered. Not surprisingly, he got slaughtered and didn’t take a point all night. All the other pelotari had a rough idea of what was happening, and they played easy against him, but Roto was a mess, and I realized without the proper technique how dangerous the pelota could be, flung in the random fashion it was coming out of Roto’s cesta.
The performance finished, and the crowd shuffled out onto the gaming floor. Roto and the others showered, and Ron and I waited in our seats.
“You ready for this?” he said.
I nodded. “As ready as ever.”
“You’re the one who will be in danger.”
“Thanks, Ron. Appreciate the heads-up.”
“Sorry. Just be careful.”
“Let’s all be careful.”
Roto drove his own car. This time it was my turn to lie on the backseat as he headed home to his townhouse. Ron was in my rental car, not tailing us but heading in the same general direction. Lucas was already in place, in a sniper’s perch on top of the apartment block opposite Roto’s townhouse. As we headed out west to Roto’s home, I called Lucas.
“This is Lucas,” he whispered.
“How’s it look?”
“All quiet.”
“You sure about this?” I asked. “You don’t have to do this. It’s not your war anymore.”
“It’s always my war, mate. It’s just whether I get involved that changes. Besides, this is just keeping my eye in.”
“All right. If you’re sure. We’re about ten minutes out,” I whispered back, though I didn’t know why.
“Roger that.”
Roto told me when we were approaching, and he hit the clicker to open his garage door. I saw the white walls of the garage through the windows and heard the chain grind the door closed. I sat up. Once inside, I made sure all the drapes were pulled and the lights were on. I had Roto put on some music, and he chose mariachi, which I thought was a bit obvious, so he changed to some Gloria Estefan.
“Okay, you can sit here in the living room until we hear from Ron or Lucas,” I said. “Then I’ll want you to move as we discussed. Okay?”
“Si.”
“And stay away from the windows.”
“Si.”
We waited through an entire Gloria Estefan album, then a Miami Sound Machine greatest hits, then Roto dropped in some Spanish guitar, which hit the spot. I hadn’t expected company immediately upon getting there, but by two in the morning I was flagging. I hoped the other guys were okay. I called Ron, and he was awake, if not alert. We agreed there was a chance that no one would show tonight. Perhaps they would bide their time, and we’d have to do this again. I wasn’t sure how we would sell the idea to Roto’s wife, who thought the Disney trip was something that Roto had won but couldn’t take with them due to his in-season playing commitments. My phone vibrated in my hand to kill that thought.
“This is Lucas.”
“You know,” I said. “Shouldn’t we have code names or something?”
“We do. Mine’s Lucas. I thought you’d like to know there are two big dudes with guns approaching the townhouse.”
I turned and shot a look at Roto, who needed no further information.
“Where’s your guy?” said Lucas.
“He’s getting in the bathtub with a bottle of tequila.”
“Good plan. Stay open channels. Bogies one house away.”
I slipped the phone into my pocket and slipped the attached earphone into one ear. Then I reached into the back of my jeans and pulled out my Glock. I had felt it against my back all night, like a spider sleeping on my skin. Despite my body heat it hadn’t warmed up, and I looked at it like it was death itself. It was heavy for its size, like a good watermelon, but unlike a watermelon, its purpose had nothing to do with warm summer afternoons and happy times. I had the thing because Lenny demanded I have it just in case, demanded I spend hours at the range learning to use it, and then the first time I’d ever fired it outside the range, I had killed the man who had killed Lenny. Lenny, like Lucas, had been much more at ease with weapons, as if they were hammers or saws. I spoke to Lucas as I moved back from the window, imagining him looking through the scope on his sniper’s rifle.
“News?” I said.
“Just the two guys. Now, we need to make sure of that fact, so I’m going to hold my powder until the last. You keep ya pants on, ya hear?”
“Roger that.”
I pulled the chamber back on the Glock to arm it and got behind the side of the sofa. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use it, but I wouldn’t hesitate if I had to. Lenny had drummed that much into me. Don’t pick it up unless you’re prepared to use it. Don’t aim it at anything you ain’t prepared to shoot. Shoot so whatever you aim at ain’t getting up again.
“Okay, we’ve got two guys,” said Lucas through my earpiece. “One is at the window, the other approaching the door. The window guy has a shotgun, the door guy I can’t tell, but probably a handgun from his stance.”
“You’re sure there’s no way in through the back?” I whispered, despite the fact that the music was blaring.
“No, mate. I had a good look when I got here. No access from the back. Personally, I’d come in from above, but I don’t think these fellas have chopper support. Just hang on a sec, got another call coming in.”
I rolled my eyes at Lucas taking another call right now. It was like taking a call during your wedding ceremony. Then he was back.
“That was Ron,” he said. “He thought he saw one of the guys from his spot. He’s got good eyes.”
“Anything coming from his way?”
“Nada,” said Lucas. “This is it. These are our guys. Hang tight.”
There was nothing but silence on the line. The Spanish guitar bounced into my brain and back out again. I felt like my whole body was shaking, but I looked down at the gun and found my hand to be as steady as a surgeon’s. Then Lucas was back.
“Okay, they’re down. Wait ten seconds.”
I waited what felt like hours.
“Okie dokes, we’re good. I’ll see you out front,” said Lucas. He clicked off the call. I didn’t get up immediately. The whole thing felt like an anticlimax, and I waited for the extra guy to spring out of the darkness, but he didn’t. I got up and, holding the Glock with two hands, I made my way to the front door. I took one hand off the gun to unlock and open the door, then I threw it open and pushed myself up against the jamb. But there was nothing out there. Then I saw the first guy. He was lying at my feet, on the path to the door. I craned my head around to look back toward the living room window and saw the second guy. He had fallen into the plants at the base of the window. I stepped out and looked at both guys. They looked dark, but it was the wee hours and hard to tell. They both wore sleeveless shirts, and they both had long black hair, tied back in a sort of ponytail. I thought of what Roto’s cousin had seen. Two Indians with long hair. These guys fit
the bill. Sort of. The more I looked, the more things didn’t feel right. I knew plenty of muscular Seminole, and these guys didn’t look like that. They were heavier somehow, and the hair seemed to burst from where it was tied back, rather than fall down their backs.
“How ya doing?” said Lucas, and I looked up to see him wandering across the road with two rifle bags in his hands. He dropped the bags on the lawn, then approached the two bodies.
“First things first,” he said. “Let’s get any weapons.” He grabbed the shotgun from the flowerbed, and I picked up a six-shooter from the guy on the doorstep.
“Should we have gloves on?” I said.
Lucas shook his head. “Nah, doesn’t matter, not where these guns are gonna end up.”
He took the gun from me and put them with his rifles.
“You sure about this stuff?” I said.
“Oh yeah, dead set. Pinched it from a fella who was gonna shoot little sharks for fun. I mean, if sharks don’t swim, they drown. Even for a shark, that don’t seem very sporting.”
He leaned over the guy in the garden and pulled out a huge tranquilizer dart. It looked big enough to down a hippo. Lucas came over to the guy at the door.
“This fella spun when I hit him, so he’s probably got the dart under him.”
Lucas bent down and rolled the guy over. Then he stood up and gave me a frown.
“Thought you said these fellas were Seminoles?”
“That was the information I got,” I said.
“Well, this fella’s no Seminole.”
“I can see that. What is he?”
“See that tattoo there on his arm,” said Lucas. “I know that tattoo. This guy is Tongan.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
THE WAREHOUSE WAS a massive space on the Loxahatchee River that had once been used to house luxury boats under repair, according to Lucas. Now it was empty, the floors littered with papers and rodent droppings. I didn’t exactly get Lucas’s method, but he was in a mood that was hearing no arguments. There was a job to be done, and he was going to do it.
High Lie Page 16
