by Lyle Howard
Damon Washington closed the door behind Gabe. “Be it ever so humble, Mr. Mitchell. Eric here will see to anything you might need.”
Gabe sat down on the edge of the bed. It felt too firm to sleep on, but he had a feeling that, in a dump like this, sleep was not the main purpose of the beds. He smiled across the room at Eric, the bodybuilder henchman, who was leaning heavily against the door. Not even at full strength could Gabe have taken on this block of chiseled granite that masqueraded as a human being. The way the man’s pectoral muscles strained at the silk fabric of his shirt made Gabe think of the Incredible Hulk. “Wazzup?”
The guard’s sullen expression never wavered. His single eyebrow wrinkled a bit, but he never offered a verbal response. Gabe figured if he had answered, it wouldn’t have been more than a grunt anyway.
“Not a big talker?” Gabe asked.
“We hire Eric occasionally,” Washington said, walking toward the bathroom, flipping on the light inside, looking around, and then shutting the light off again. “He does his job well and that’s all we care about. We don’t ask him to be congenial.”
“Ah,” Gabe nodded, “and he’s just going to stand there staring at me all night?”
“We just want you to get some rest, Mr. Mitchell. In the morning we’ll be back to brief you about tomorrow night’s plans. Until then, relax, watch some television, have a nice meal … whatever. Just tell Eric what you want and he’ll contact us.”
Gabe looked over at the empty night stand next to the bed.
“We’ve had the phone removed. I’m sure you understand … precautionary.”
Gabe reached over for a copy of the latest TV Guide that was on the dresser and flipped through it. “You don’t have to explain.”
“Perhaps if you had been a bit more cooperative with Mr. Bock.”
Gabe tossed the TV Guide onto the night stand. “Bock must really have it in for Nathan Waxman.”
“My boss,” Washington said, “has it in for anyone who commits a crime and gets away with it.”
Gabe reclined backward on his elbows. “So do I, but you’ve gotta work within the system’s limits. Otherwise, you’ve got nothing but…”
“Justice?”
“I was going to say anarchy.”
“I’d like to stay and debate you all night, Mr. Mitchell, but I have more preparations to make. Can I at least get you something to eat before I leave?” Washington asked.
“No, I can’t eat anything after that flight,” Gabe said, putting his hand on his stomach. “My belly’s still doing flip-flops. All I want is to take my medicine, lie down, and let it knock me unconscious until morning.”
“If that’s all you want, Eric can get you something cold to drink from the machine outside so you can take your pills. Have a good night’s sleep, Mr. Mitchell,” Washington said, his hand on the doorknob, “and we’ll see you bright and early in the morning.”
The door slammed, and the room went deathly silent. Gabe thought he heard scratching coming from inside one of the walls. Rats. But he tried to block it out of his mind. “So,” he said to the bodyguard, “how long have you been working for these people?”
The bruiser flipped open his cellular phone to check on its battery, and slipped it into his breast pocket. “You want something to drink so you can take your pills?”
Gabe looked surprised. “A sentence? Jeez, for a minute there, I thought I was going to have to use sign language!”
The corner of the bodyguard’s mouth sagged downward. “Whad’ya want?”
“I don’t care. If there’s something caffeine-free, that’ll be perfect. I don’t need caffeine fighting off the effect of my pills when I’m trying to sleep.”
“I’ll get you whatever’s in the machine.”
“You need some change?”
Eric shook his thick neck. “I got it.”
Gabe saw the latch click after the bodyguard shut the door. The lock was brand new—he could tell that from the polished brass. It stood out like a third thumb. He had to work fast…
Gabe sprinted for the bathroom and quickly unwrapped two plastic glasses. Through the flimsy walls, he could hear the can of soda dropping out of the machine. There was a small window above the old porcelain toilet, but it was painted shut. Besides, it was three floors down to the street. He figured he could burst through the window and jump if he had to, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Above the peeling sink, the vanity mirror was cracked, a wide strip of silver duct tape holding the broken glass in the frame. No doubt that was cheaper for the landlord than putting in an entire new mirror in this dump.
“All they had was regular Diet Pepsi.”
Gabe walked out of the bathroom with the two opaque plastic glasses. “It’ll have to do, I guess.”
“Why two glasses?” Eric asked.
“I hate to drink alone. I just thought you’d want a drink too.”
The bodyguard took a seat in one of the room’s cheap wooden chairs. The rickety material creaked under the tremendous load. “You take as much as you want. I can finish the rest out of the can.”
This wasn’t going the way he planned. “Hey, at least let me wipe the top off for you. Look how gross it is.” He didn’t have to exaggerate. The can was disgustingly dirty.
Eric inspected the top of the filthy can. “Yeah, okay.”
Gabe casually walked into the bathroom, keeping the bodyguard engaged entire way. “That’s why I never drink out of the can or the bottle if I can help it.” He flipped on the light in the bathroom, but kept his back to the outer room. “Whoo! You should see all of the crap that’s coming off on this towel!” He came back out with one glass filled and the rest of the can, which he handed to Eric. “Cheers!”
The bodyguard finished the remainder of the soda in one slug, his Adams apple bouncing in his throat like a rubber ball. Letting out a belch, he crushed the aluminum container in his fist, without the slightest effort. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
“Hey,” Gabe said, “why don’t you stick around a few more minutes? We can talk or play some cards. It’ll take a few minutes for my pills to work.”
The bodyguard held up his hand. “I don’t get paid to babysit, mister. Washington told you to get some sleep … so sleep.”
Gabe reached for the television’s remote control, but it didn’t work.
“So how much does babysitting go for nowadays?” Gabe asked.
Eric yawned. “More than you can afford from the looks of you.”
Gabe took another sip from his soda. “I guess I have kinda let myself go lately. Exactly how did you get into the kind of great shape you’re in?”
Eric yawned again and rubbed his eyes. He stopped halfway to the door. Gabe figured it was a better than fifty-fifty chance that Eric would love talking about his own physique. First principle of hostage negotiation: there’s only one thing that can flourish without nourishment … it’s the human ego.
Gabe yawned so Eric could see him, and the bodyguard copied him. “I guess it don’t really matter if I’m inside or out, so long as you stay put.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gabe assured his captor as he fluffed up the two droopy pillows on the bed and braced them against the rattan headboard. “I’m gonna get nice and cozy, and if I should nod off, then do me a favor and shut off the lights, will you?”
The bodyguard sat back down in the same rickety chair as before, this time leaning with his elbows on the table. “Is it warm in here, or is it me?”
The only thing that was comfortable about the room was the temperature. “Seems fine to me,” Gabe said. “So tell me about your fitness regimen. How’d you beef up like that?”
Eric tugged at the collar of his shirt which he suddenly found very constricting.
“I … uh … I work out a minimum of two hours a day with free weights…”
“How about those machines?” Gabe asked, genuinely showing interest. “You use the Stairmaster and stuff like that?”
>
Eric shook his head heavily. “Uh … no cardio. Don’t … like the machines.”
Gabe stretched his arms above his head and took in a long, protracted breath, stretching lazily as his pills continued their work. “How about food supplements? You take any steroids or stuff like that?”
Eric’s left eyelid wilted slowly and then blinked open again. “No … drugs … never take any drugs.”
Gabe nodded. “That’s a good philosophy to live by, you know? If you ask me, drugs are the scourge of our modern society, don’t you think so? For all the good they do for some people, when used indiscriminately, they can do terrible damage.”
Eric’s enormous head hit the table with a leaden “thud.”
Gabe sprang off of the bed. Wow, those things work fast! Eight capsules. It was all the medicine he had left. He knew it was going take a lot to bring down this elephant, and he hadn’t wanted to take any chances.
He figured he had four to five hours leeway while Eric was in dreamland, but, to play it safe, he would be back in under three. His first priority was Casey’s safety. Moving on the balls of his feet, he inched closer to the sleeping bodyguard who was now sawing wood like a lumberjack. The phone was in his shirt pocket and the keys were undoubtedly in his trousers. One thing at a time…
Sweat rolled off of Gabe’s forehead as he inched his hand closer to the pocket with the phone in it. Who knew how powerful those pills were, or how strong Eric’s constitution was?
The bodyguard was sleeping on his crossed arms, his face pressed flat against the table. Gabe had to get onto his knees and work upward from below, using the tip of one finger to nudge the phone ever-so-slowly out of Eric’s pocket. The weightlifter stirred … and Gabe held his breath. His hands were surprisingly steady considering the awkward position he was in.
Once the phone was in his possession, the keys were next. He wanted them as insurance, just in case something went wrong, and he needed to return before Eric awoke. After a few seconds of careful consideration, he realized this might take a bit of surgery. He remembered the broken vanity mirror…
The jagged sliver of glass Gabe returned with from the bathroom would do nicely. A fraction of an inch at a time, he cut open Eric’s pants pocket. Once again, the bodyguard rustled, this time shifting his face on the table away from Gabe. The material tore with a ripping sound until the tip of the glass hit the metal key ring. With one swift tug, Gabe freed the keys from the slumbering bodyguard’s pocket and stifled their jingling between his palms.
Gabe tiptoed toward the drapes and pulled them back just enough to see outside. His view was partially obscured, but, even in the eerie amber tinge from the streetlights, he could see most of the parking lot. Only three spaces appeared to be filled, but, from this third floor height, he couldn’t tell if any of the vehicles were occupied. It would be a chance he would have to take.
As Gabe left, he decided to leave the light on, fearing that if someone else was watching the room, they might find it strange that Eric would stay inside once the lights went out. Carefully, he opened the door just wide enough to hold out the sliver of broken mirror. He tilted it in both directions to see if the landing was clear. Thankfully, it was.
The stairwell was closer to his left. Only one room to cross and then the stairs. The cool night air rushed into the room, drying up the perspiration on Gabe’s face and making him want to sneeze, but he pressed his fist hard against his nose to suppress the urge. He couldn’t keep the door open; the cold air would wake Eric like a slap from an Eskimo. Staying low, he crept on his belly through the door, closing it slowly behind him so the lock would make as little noise as possible.
Now that he was out on the landing, two more cars came into view. These were parked right up against the building below. Lying prone on the floor, Gabe crept forward until his head was flush against the ledge and the metal railing. The car on the right, an expensive import, looked empty. Gabe rifled through the keys he took off Eric. The import had to be his—the key matched. Next to the import, there was a light blue (or what appeared to be blue under the amber lights) sedan. At first Gabe thought it might be unoccupied as well, until he saw a faint orange dot glowing through the windshield … the telltale tip of a lit cigarette. It could have been another one of Bock’s hired goons keeping an extra eye on the outside of the place, or just some innocent passerby who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, it ruined any chance Gabe had of misappropriating Eric’s car.
Making his way down the stairs, he paused behind a garbage dumpster to catch his bearings. He knew Miami like the back of his hand, but nothing around here seemed familiar. Maybe he was just too tired, or perhaps it was the all the confusion of the moment, but, for the life of him, he couldn’t spot a recognizable landmark. Behind the motel, a tall fence ran the perimeter of the parking lot, another clue that this wasn’t the best of neighborhoods. Gabe stayed with his back pressed against the fence for a long moment and listened to the sounds of the night. He stayed in the shadows, creeping ever-so-slowly toward the entrance to the parking lot, stopping whenever the sound of a passing car would grow too loud. Look at me! I’m slinking around a parking lot in the middle of nowhere! Go back upstairs. Let the chips fall wherever they fall. Three weeks or three months—it would still never be enough time to fill all the holes in Casey’s life. He’ll be better off with all that money.
In the midst of the stillness, he could feel his heart beating. It felt weak and feeble, like termites burrowing inside of his chest.
But who says they’ll hold up their end of the deal? Who knows what they’ll do to Casey after I’m gone? He’s just another loose end for them. I’ve gotta make sure Casey’s alright. I’ve gotta keep going. Gotta put an end to this insanity.
Gabe was wheezing as he walked as fast as he could for the opening in the fence. When he finally reached the street, he looked to his left … more motels. To his right … even more motels. Across the busy street in front of him … yet another row of motels. Where was he?
Thunder boomed on a cloudless evening. It came from his left, exploding from out of the darkness. It grew louder with each passing second. It came from across the street, behind the row of motels. Wait … not thunder. Too nice out for thunder.
A boat. A racing boat to be exact. They called them “cigarettes”—sleek hulled firecrackers that raced across the surface of the water trailing a rooster tail of spray in their turbulent wake. He was near the water. He turned to what he figured was the east and drew in a deep breath. Salt air. Now things were starting to fall into place.
23
He was on Hollywood Beach—a narrow strip of real estate north of Miami Beach and southeast of Fort Lauderdale. Motels by the hundreds flanked the Atlantic Ocean here for the convenience of all the tourists that called this place home during these winter months.
This was no out-of-the-way place. He remembered from the television report that Nathan Waxman’s yacht was docked at a marina on the Intracoastal Waterway not very far from here. That had to be where the roar of the boats was coming from.
Gabe’s mind was clearing. Being in Hollywood wasn’t good though. He was half an hour ride from Miami with no transportation. Gabe reached into his back pocket and checked his bankroll. Fifty-three dollars … more than enough for cab fare.
Waiting for his ride to show up, Gabe phoned his in-laws number, but there was no answer. He knew tonight was Marta’s night off, so he could only hope and pray that Casey was with one of them and that his son was safe.
The yellow cab came screeching to the curb ten minutes later. Once inside, Gabe couldn’t decide which smelled worse: the motel room he had just left, or the interior of the car.
“Where to, mister?” the cabbie asked, in a heavy Haitian accent.
“Drive south,” Gabe ordered from the back seat.
“South?”
“I’ll tell you exactly where in a minute. Head down toward Miami.”
The Haitian driver stared
at Gabe quizzically in the rear-view mirror, and then nodded. “Okay, south. Boulevard or expressway?”
Gabe messed up the number he was punching into Eric’s portable phone. “I don’t care! The quickest way!”
The driver nodded again. “Boulevard is quicker this time of night.”
“Then take the damned boulevard!”
Gabe re-dialed the police station and was told Captain Leon Williams had left for a quick dinner. Now Gabe knew exactly where to tell the cabbie to drive.
The lights along Biscayne Boulevard, a.k.a. U.S. 1, streaked by like a meteor shower. This four lane blacktop had been the main thoroughfare in South Florida years before the interstate brought new meaning to the word “congestion.” Now a secondary road, one could still get a taste of the evolution of South Florida by studying the neighborhoods the boulevard passed through. It was like looking at a cross-section of a sedimentary rock, the newer layers of stone forming atop the older and crushing them beneath their weight.
Restaurants that had once served celebrities as well as scoundrels now stood as boarded-up monuments to a bygone era. The signs on most of the stores were written in Spanish as well as English, a by-product of the new ethnicity of the area. Hookers still patrolled the sidewalks of North Miami, leaning into the cars of anyone who would slow down and show an interest in their wares. Gabe smiled to himself as the taxi pulled away from a red light. As he watched those ladies of the evening move from car to car, he couldn’t help but remember back to those early years of busting johns and running down pimps. Although most of those years working under Leon Williams’ command were memorable, he sure wouldn’t miss a single minute of those exhausting footraces.
Gabe tried his in-law’s number one more time, but still no luck. There would be no leaving his voice on their message machine. He didn’t want to risk it. “Make the next right, driver.”
