His father.
And his mother.
Isaac had thought he was so clever, the way he'd ventured into the maternal half of the forbidden territory. Theo knew he didn't give a rat's ass about him or his mother. Isaac brought her up only as a reminder that the cops hadn't lifted a finger to catch the guy who'd slit her throat – yet another reason Theo shouldn't turn to the police. Little did Isaac know that Theo had shipped off those demons to a place that Trina called the gulag of Theo's mind.
Theo's Coconut Grove town house wasn't in the ghetto, where he'd once lived with Tatum and their mother, but his little hovel wasn't exactly the poster property for Miami 's real estate nirvana, either. In many ways, Theo was a man in transition.
The porch light was out. He fumbled for his key in the darkness, but the blue-green glow of the television screen greeted him as he opened the front door.
"Cy?" he said. "You up?"
The old man rose from the E-Z chair. He was technically Theo's great-uncle, and just about everyone called him "Uncle Cy," but Theo just called him Cy "Course I'm up," he said.
"It's three-thirty in the morning."
"When you're my age, that's almost lunchtime."
The old man chuckled, and Theo smiled, even though he'd heard the joke many times before. His great-uncle had suffered a mild stroke over the summer. He was almost completely recovered, save for a slight loss of motion in his right leg and occasional short-term memory issues. The doctors thought it was better that he not live alone until he finished his rehab. He'd been staying with Theo for the past three months. It was the least Theo could do for the man who'd taught him to play the saxophone.
"Sit with me for a minute," said Cy as he cleared away the clutter of newspapers on the couch.
Theo tried not to groan. "I'm really beat."
The old man shot him one of those lonely hound-dog looks. All his life, he'd been tall and thin, and he had a saxophone player's stoop even when he wasn't playing, as if his chin were glued to his sternum. He could cut to the soul when he looked at you, head down, through the top of those sad eyes. The man just didn't play fair.
"All right," said Theo as he flopped onto the sofa.
Cy lowered himself into the chair and flipped through the channels with the remote. "I wanted you to see this," he said.
"See what?"
"It's been all over the news. There was a prison break last night. A guy named Isaac Reems escaped. There it is," he said, stopping on Action News.
Isaac's inmate photograph was on-screen staring back at Theo. The orange jumpsuit, the prison haircut, the mad-at-the-world scowl. For a fleeting moment, Theo saw himself – what he once was, the way he could have ended up. Thankfully, the anchorwoman was at the end of her three-minute update.
"Reems is assumed to be armed and dangerous," she said to her television audience. "Anyone with information as to his whereabouts should immediately contact the Miami-Dade Department of Corrections." A telephone number flashed on the screen, and then the newscast broke for a commercial.
Cy hit the mute button. "Isn't that the boy you and your brother used to hang out with?"
"Yeah, that's him."
His uncle shook his head. "I knew he'd never amount to nothing. The other newsman said he's been in and out of prison since he was seventeen."
"Almost as bad as Tatum," said Theo.
Almost. His older brother had grown up to be a contract killer.
Cy said, "I just thank God one of y'all made something of his-self."
"Yup, that's me, all right. Saint Theo."
"Don't you go puttin' yourself down. Ain't no comparison between you and those two thugs. You should be proud of yourself."
"Must have been the music that turned me around," said Theo.
He meant that. In his prime, Cyrus Knight had been a nightclub star in old Overtown, Miami 's Harlem. He played all the best joints. At his peak, in the 1960s, he even did orchestra gigs for Sammy Davis Jr. and other stars in the big hotels on Miami Beach. When Theo was released from prison, Cy gave him his old saxophone, a classic Buescher 400. "You might be happy to be out of prison," his uncle had told him, "or you might be pissed off that they locked you up in the first place. It don't make no never mind. You just put all those feelings right here." Theo took the sax and the advice.
"'Tell me something about my momma," said Theo.
His uncle did a double take. It might have amazed an outsider, but this was a conversation they'd never had before. Never. Theo was that adamant about it.
"Where did that question come from?" said Cy.
"Isaac was there the night we found her. I guess it got me to wondering, seeing him tonight. I mean on the TV," he said, quick to correct himself.
Cy didn't seem at all comfortable with the chosen topic of conversation. "What do you want to know?"
"Something good. Tell me something good about her."
The old man was silent, as if searching. He answered without looking at Theo, his gaze drifting off toward the middle distance. "Ain't nothin' good to tell, Theo. Nothin' good at all."
Theo nodded, more in resignation than agreement. "I'm going to bed." He rose and headed toward the bedroom.
Cy called his name, stopping him. "Are you okay, boy? You seem a little bit off."
Theo shrugged. "Tough night."
"Trina giving you heartache again?"
"No, it's not that. We talked right before closing. I think we're gonna be okay."
"Good. I like that girl. But something's eatin' at you. What is it?"
Theo sighed, burying his hands in his pockets. "I just don't like feeling ripped off, that's all."
"Not again. You was robbed?"
He weighed the word's every connotation. "Comes with the turf, I guess."
"Did you call the cops?"
Theo harrumphed, as if to say, "What the hell good would that do?" He suddenly felt much the same way about this conversation. Absolutely no good could come of telling Cy about his surprise visit from Isaac. "I really don't feel like talking about it."
"That's all right. You get some rest."
"'Night, old man."
"Good night, boy."
Theo continued down the dark hallway and didn't even bother turning on the bedroom light. He practically fell on the bed, dead tired, emotionally exhausted, drained in every sense of the word – and completely unable to sleep. He could have lain there till dawn, staring at the ceiling as all of Miami woke. Or…
He knew Rene was in town, but this couldn't wait till morning. He reached for the phone on his nightstand and dialed Jack. His friend.
His lawyer.
Chapter 3
Most days, Jack was simply a criminal defense lawyer. At 3:30 a.m., when calling the Miami-Dade state attorney at home, he donned his former-prosecutor hat. There were times when it paid to be part of the club.
"This had better be good, Swyteck," she said with a grumble into the telephone.
"I can help you find Isaac Reems."
He sensed that she was suddenly wide awake.
Jack's talk with Theo had raised a serious dilemma. An old robbery conviction made Theo's possession of a firearm a second-degree felony in Florida. Theo was willing to tell all about Reems, but Jack insisted that it be done through his lawyer – with an agreement from the state attorney that there would be no flack about the illegal firearm.
"Deal," she said. "What do you have?"
"One other thing," said Jack. "I want this information disseminated to law enforcement without attribution. My client's name stays out of this."
"Why? He's doing the right thing."
"He's turning in the former leader of the Grove Lords. They ruled this city once upon a time. Gangsters have long memories and they don't like rats."
"I see your point, but I hate making deals with these kinds of conditions."
"It's not negotiable. I gave him strict orders not to tell anyone – not even his uncle, who lives with him."
The line was silent. She seemed to be considering it." All right. The source isn't important, as long as I'm able to vouch for the fact that the information is reliable."
"It's totally reliable," said Jack. He was speaking in his former-prosecutor voice again.
"Then we understand each other. Talk to me."
ANDIE HENNING WAS IN downward-facing dog pose, wearing only a black exercise leotard, struggling to get her breathing under control. It was her Saturday morning routine: yoga class to the soothing sound of breaking waves on Miami Beach. Watching the sun climb up above the Atlantic was totally invigorating, and if you could do it with your ankles up around your ears, you were among a privileged few.
The class ended by 7:30 a.m., and even though it was early May, Andie could feel summer in the air. She pulled on sweatpants, more out of modesty than necessity, and then packed up her workout bag and slung it over her shoulder. Inside were the standard yoga props, her cell phone, and her Sig Sauer 9-millimeter pistol.
Andie was in her ninth year with the FBI; she'd spent the first six in Seattle and the balance in the Miami field office. Hardly a lifelong dream of hers, the bureau had been more of a safe landing for a self-assured thrill seeker. At the training academy, she became only the twentieth woman in bureau history to make the Possible Club, a 98 percent male honorary fraternity for agents who shoot perfect scores on one of the toughest firearms courses in law enforcement. Her supervisor in Seattle saw her potential, and she didn't disappoint him – at least not until personal reasons prompted her to put in for a transfer to Miami, about as far away from Seattle as she could get.
"Nice look, babe," said the jogger as he passed her on the sidewalk.
Dumb-ass remarks were one thing she didn't like about South Beach. At least they came in about nine different languages – part of the panoply of contradictions that made for the crude-cosmopolitan, chic-chauvinist ambience of Ocean Drive.
Lincoln Road Mall was her destination, a pedestrian-only thoroughfare lined with eclectic shops, restaurants, bars, and galleries. Andie had a breakfast meeting with an acquaintance who fancied herself an expert on computer dating. With such a busy career, Andie had resigned herself to trying something new. At one of the many outdoor cafes on the mall she found Maria Cortina smoking a cigarette at a small table beneath the shade of a Cinzano umbrella. Maria was wearing a tight red dress and evening makeup that needed to be refreshed or removed. Either she hadn't made it to bed at all last night or she hadn't made it to her own bed.
Maria borrowed a pen from the waiter and took notes on a napkin while slurping highly caffeinated coffee.
"So, what was your last serious relationship?" Maria asked.
"Not exactly my favorite subject," said Andie. "I was engaged when I lived in Seattle. He slept with my sister."
"Ouch." Maria took a drag from her cigarette. "Have you dated at all since coming to Miami?"
"Some. "
"Anyone you really liked?"
"Is this personal dating history really important?"
"Absolutely," she said, smoke pouring out with her words. "I'm trying to get a feel for your target mate. Juicy details aren't necessary. But if there's a guy in your recent past who you thought had some promise, tell me about him."
Andie considered it. "I guess that would be Jack Swyteck."
"The former governor's son?"
"Yeah. We met while I was working a big kidnapping case out of central Florida, and we ended up going out a couple times after it wrapped up. Believe me, my expectations were extremely low. An FBI agent dating a criminal defense lawyer – what chance does that have? But to my surprise, I was feeling some major sparks."
"What happened?"
"Bam! I said something stupid and it was over"
"How stupid?"
"I'd really rather not get into it, if that's okay."
Andie got the impression that Maria would have persevered on any other morning, but the coffee and cigarettes didn't seem to be doing the trick on her hangover. Maria glanced at Andie's resume and frowned almost immediately
"Is something the matter?" said Andie.
"Your photograph. You're beautiful in person. Those high cheekbones, the raven black hair."
"My biological mother was American Indian."
"I presume it was an Anglo father who gave you the amazing green eyes. The mix makes for an exotic, captivating look. But…" Maria crushed out her cigarette and savored her last lungful. "You should be blonde."
"Blonde? But I get a lot of compliments about my hair."
"I know computer dating. Blonde women get twice the calls."
"And I'm sure naked women get three times the calls. I'm not changing my hair."
"Okeydoke." She read on. Another frown. "I see you put the FBI right up top."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"For a job application, it's great. But in the world of online romance, women in law enforcement don't get callbacks.You need to hold that info for the actual date. What else are you trained to do?"
"Well, I went to law school, but I never practiced."
"Excellent. Men will adore you: smart but non-threatening. How about other jobs? What did you do before the FBI?"
"Waited tables in college. I actually drove a truck one summer in law school."
"Hmmm. What kind of truck?"
"Delivery truck. I worked for UPS"
"Perfect!" she said, thinking aloud as she scribbled on a napkin. "Educated at Brown."
"Hold on. That is so misleading."
"Half your callbacks will be from married men who keep a credit card and a cell phone in the name of an unmarried friend so that the wife won't see the paper trail. That's misleading."
Andie retrieved her resume. "You know, maybe this online stuff isn't for me."
Her cell phone rang. It was Guy Schwartz, the assistant special agent in charge of the Miami field office. Her boss. She excused herself and took the call, finding a more private spot a little farther down the mall. She talked while standing in the recessed entrance-way to a closed gallery.
"The feds are getting into the Isaac Reems manhunt," Schwartz said.
"We clearly have jurisdiction. Reems was in federal custody before we released him to TGK for trial on the state charges."
"Yeah. Apparently life in federal prison for kidnapping wasn't enough for the state attorney. She had to tack on sexual assault under Florida law."
"Hard to argue with that if you look through the victim's eyes," said Andie.
"Sure. But now look where we are. Miami-Dade Corrections let him slip out the window on a rope made from bedsheets. Bedsheets. How the hell does that happen in the twenty-first century?"
"He won't get far."
"That's where you come in. I just got off the phone with the commander of the Violent Offenders and Fugitive Task Force. He's bringing in every resource – the state and locals, the U.S. Marshals, and the FBI. I need an agent I can count on to coordinate our office's involvement. You've done excellent work with the kidnapping joint task forces. I would expect nothing less here"
"When do I start?"
"How soon can you be here?"
She checked her appearance. Sweatpants and a leotard weren't exactly office attire. Good thing she kept a clean set of clothes at work. She could shower there, too. "See you in twenty minutes," she said.
Chapter 4
The search was on. With the help of Uncle Cy, Theo was determined to find the perfect location for Sparky's II.
They checked out three locations before lunch. Theo saved the best for last.
"Holy crap," said Cy. He was dressed like Johnny Cash – black shirt, black shoes, and black pants. It was his serious jazz club attire, but he had a smile that brought the look to life.
They were standing in a vacant restaurant with old wood floors, redbrick walls, and high ceilings. On one side of the room was a huge U-shaped bar that would allow the bartender to work three sides; the top of the U was closed off
by cafe doors that led to the kitchen. The bar stools had been sold off in the previous tenants liquidation, but Theo could pick up some used ones on the cheap. The chandeliers were also gone, but it didn't take much to imagine a big brass antique casting its moody glow as Theo served up drinks till the wee hours of the morning. The previous tenant had obviously over improved, the cost of the build-out making profit impossible. The restaurant owner's downfall was the bar owner's windfall. Capitalism, 100 proof.
"You like it?" said Theo.
"Holy crap," he said again.
Theo crossed the room. "This is where the dinner tables used to be. We could put cocktail tables here, and the ceiling is plenty high for us to build a little stage against the back wall for the band."
"I can hear that beautiful sax already," said Cy.
"I was thinking maybe fifteen tables or so."
“Twenty" said Cy "You need that crowded jazz bar feelin' with the lights dimmed and the smoke risin' up-"
"No smoking" said Theo. "It's against the law if we're gonna serve food."
"No smoke in a jazz bar? That's like no blue in the Blue Note."
"Things change," said Theo.
"Yeah," he said wistfully "they sure do." Then his face lit up. "Hey here's an idea. Why don't I take you on a tour? Overtown, old Miami, Miami Beach. I'll show you all the joints I used to play"
"Are they still around?"
"Yeah, every last one of them is still right here," he said, as he pointed to his heart. "Don't make no difference if they've been turned into parking lots or fancy office buildings. It's like visiting hallowed ground. It'll all come back to me when we walk the old streets. Maybe you'll even pick up some vibes of inspiration for this joint."
"I'd like that," said Theo. "We should have done it a long time ago.
Together, they fell into silence, remembering when Uncle Cy had made that very suggestion years earlier – before Theo got mixed up with the Grove Lords and ended up in prison.
His cell phone rang. He checked the number, and it was Trina. "Gotta take this."
"You go ahead. I'll just keep on dreamin'."
Last Call Page 3
