Hot Scores

by Bud Connell

  “Joe Oaks, meet Roosevelt Gunner. He’s with DEA and his specialty is street drugs: pot, coke, meth, crack, you name it.”

  “Call me Rosy,” said the big man, who looked like he could pick me up and break me in half.

  I got right to the point. “A man I want to bring to you knows more about street drugs in Florida than anyone I know of, but he wants immunity before he opens his mouth.”

  Travis pointed to Gunner. “He’s the man.”

  “I can’t guarantee immunity, Mr. Oaks. This is more serious than Travis’s specialty.”

  Not what I wanted to hear. I ignored Gunner’s remark and plowed ahead. “My contact is ready to talk now. I don’t know what he knows, but it’ll be a lot deeper than the stuff I gave to Travis. He won’t come forward unless he’s got a no prosecution agreement; that much I know for sure, and he’s a key link to Darragh Cahoone’s business.”

  “We got Cahoone cornered on fake prescription drugs,” Gunner said. “It’s him, but mostly his middle tier distributors of recreationals we want; because after Cahoone’s outta commission, the street druggers will simply find another coke and pot importer and be back in business in less than a week.”

  “My contact can fill in the blanks, I promise. The people you want are the people he was dealing with every day.” I used past tense because I wanted Gunner to think Ramon had already stopped pushing. My last few words must’ve hit close to the bulls-eye, because Rosy Gunner turned almost completely around in his seat.

  “How soon can I meet him?” I could swear the big man was practically salivating.

  “Gimme a signed immunity agreement and he’ll be available tonight or tomorrow, take your choice.”

  He didn’t answer right away, but instead appeared to be considering alternatives.

  Finally Rosy said, “Okay, he’s got a deal. Hand me the briefcase on the floor behind you. What’s his name?”

  “Ramon, Ramon Rodriguez.”

  +++

  I pulled up next to where Ramon’s new Porsche was parked at the Hallandale McDonalds. He hopped out and into the passenger’s side of the Mustang. I handed him two copies of the immunity agreement.

  Ramon studied the forms. “So they already know who I am.”

  “Yeah, I had to tell ‘em. They wouldn’t hand it out with a blank for a name.”

  He gripped the forms like they might grow legs and try to get away.

  “Sign one, keep the other.” I pointed to the signature line. “And I’ll call ‘em for a place and time.”

  “This is crazy.” Ramon slowly shook his head.

  “We’re doing the right thing.”

  “I got serious doubt, Joe-balls.”

  57 – Career Ending News Story

  Early in the evening, Ramon called and said Rosy Gunner showed up at his apartment with another guy and a voice recorder. They made him sign the forms all over again so they was properly witnessed, and then Rosy interviewed him for about two hours.

  “Who’s the other guy? I asked. “What’s he do?”

  “Travis somebody—he asked questions about our phony drug sales and everything I know about Cahoone.”

  “Travis McIntyre?” This bugged me for some unknown reason, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.

  Ramon continued. “I answered all of Gunner’s questions, including about Louie, my main contact; but when the other guy took over, he was more interested in the phony prescription drugs.”

  “Yeah, that’s his department. Once I figured out that they probably know as much as I do, I decided I’d be done for if I didn’t play it straight. I told him all I remembered. So we should be on the same page.”

  “They recorded everything, and something you oughta know, the big black guy was curious about the fight we had at the radio station where Havenetta works. Somebody up there ratted us out.”

  “Probably one of the people who came out of the offices to see what was going on,” I reasoned.

  “He seemed to know about it, so I spilled it. Fat Baby, Emeril Green, how it happened, the works; but I couldn’t remember the rest of the names. That reminds me. Gunner said for you to call him tonight on his cell.”

  +++

  I phoned Rosy and he told me to meet him in the sports bar a couple miles from his office in Weston. He said it would be a bad idea if certain people, meaning Cahoone I guess, saw me going into DEA headquarters. Thin chance, but best to be careful and safe.

  Anyway, I parked right in front of the fancy Ale House surrounded by manicured shrubs and palm trees and found Rosy sitting all by himself as far away as he could get from the watching and cheering Gator basketball addicts.

  I sort of lifted my right hand to shake, but he didn’t seem to notice, and instead motioned to me and patted the tabletop. So, I helped myself to a seat directly across from him. The menus were already open.

  “Are we eating?” I worried about my doll and it was her dinnertime.

  “Anything you want. It’s on me.”

  I decided on a shrimp salad so I’d have room for more with Katya later. Rosy settled on a Philly Cheese Steak, and that fit. A shapely blond in a wine shirt and shorts took our order, and that was the last of the social courtesy.

  “Let’s get right to the point, Oaks.” He reached into his side pocket and retrieved a small, sleek silver voice recorder and laid it between us, which made me a little nervous. “This is just to help me remember. I got a few questions to ask about your friend Ramon.”

  I gave him one little nod and he picked up the recorder, told it the date, time and place, and then ordered me to state and spell my name, and give my permanent address, which I did, but I had to put in my two cents.

  “Hey, this sounds awfully official and like it’s gonna be more than just a few questions.”

  “SOP. Everybody gets the same drill.”

  I thought about the no prosecution form that I signed and I calmed down. It’s a good thing ol’ Joe has good inner control.

  The blond in the tight shorts and tennis shoes brought our food and a couple of beers, and we ate in between the volleys of Q’s and A’s.

  Rosy Gunner asked a hundred questions about my past dealings with Ramon, and especially about our hoo-ha ruckus in the radio station when Emeril Green flattened Ramon on Havenetta’s desk. It hit Rosy funny and he was actually trying to hold in his laughing and doing a pretty good job of it, but went real serious when I told him how much shit Ramon unloaded on the desk and on the floor before Demontavio told us to get out. It was then Gunner unloaded a bombshell.

  “You may have to testify about them.”

  “Who?!”

  “The four we have in custody. You haven’t seen the Herald today, have you? Got a good write up in the entertainment section.”

  “Who’s in custody? What are their names?”

  “Can’t remember exactly; uh, Willie and his female partner, a guy by the name of Green; and, this one I do remember, Fat Baby Wiggles. How could I forget?”

  “Damn, that’s almost their whole air staff.” I ratcheted through a range of emotions on this one, knowing that bit of news sealed the fate of my formerly illustrious career as a music promotion man, but I had to take a stand. “I can’t testify against them. They’re friends!”

  He just looked at me while he thought a few seconds.

  “You may not have to bother.”

  “Well, that gives me some relief.”

  “Good. Just be sure you stay around where I can reach you.”

  He asked a few more questions about getting airplay in exchange for happy weed spiffs and the like, and I was open, and for the most part honest when I thought he either knew it already or had pulled it out of Ramon, although Ramon didn’t really know what I did with the drugs that I bought from him.

  Rosy’s question-engine ran out of gas and we quickly finished our food and beer, and I excused myself leaving more than half my salad on the plate. I told him I had to take my starving doll to dinner because she didn’t hav
e wheels.

  58 – A Big Launch After Dinner

  On the drive back to Deerfield Beach, I mulled over the meeting. Something bugged me and didn’t make sense. Anyway, I shook it off and when I rolled up to the Carriage House, Katya was dressed to the hilt and ready for dinner.

  “Oh Joe, let’s go to Miami Beach, to a really good restaurant. I’m so tired of fast food and bars! All they have is chicken fingers and buffalo wings. Please, please?”

  There’s no refusing a girl like Katya. You bust your hump to give her whatever she wants and then some.

  “Sure, but not in our old neighborhood. Okay, doll?”

  “I know the perfect little place,” she said.

  +++

  A little over a half-hour later, I avoided a valet and parked the Mustang one street west of the restaurant, but I still had an uneasy feeling in spite of being in Surfside, way north of The Plage and 7777.

  Katya and I walked around the block and into a small Peruvian restaurant with a big reputation. I palmed a twenty-dollar bill to the headwaiter and asked for a place in the back. Not a problem.

  He walked us to the rear of the eatery, stopped at a choice table, removed a reserved sign, and pulled out a chair for Katya, who started slipping out of her sable. The waiter grabbed the opportunity and offered to check it, but Katya declined.

  “Just drape it over the back of my chair, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am, certainly.”

  I took the chair against the wall and to the left of Katya so I could have a three-sixty of the whole place. Can’t be too careful.

  Our assigned waiter appeared almost immediately with menus and water, and placed them in front of us with a kind of high-priced precision. Then he snapped up straight and asked if we’d like cocktails before dinner.

  Katya requested a chocolate martini and I ordered my usual Kentucky medication with a 7-back. As soon as the waiter turned away, Katya excused herself for the ladies’ room and left me alone to suck in the sights of this highly-rated and decorated-to-the-hilt food palace––and to think, something I hadn’t had much time to do lately.

  I got two feds from different departments grilling me about two different operations involving the same people. I got a high-level drug dealer’s girlfriend and eight million dollars of his money in four different banks. How long until one of them finds out what I don’t want them to know? How long can I go without making a mistake?

  There were no snap answers, and I noticed my hand was shaking a little when I picked up my water.

  Katya returned a couple of minutes later and got my mind off all the crap and onto the menu. We ordered and ate like two starved fools, and I polished off my last glass of Merlot along with the last bite of a too-big-for-ten people-to-eat chocolate something-or-other as the waiter brought the check. The tariff was a little north of eighty bucks, so I slipped a hundred into the leather folder, handed it to him and waived him off.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “I’m not comfortable being this close to Collins Avenue.” I got up and pulled Katya’s chair out like the gentleman I am; and as she stood up it looked like she dropped a few inches on one side and turned her ankle.

  “Damn! I think I broke a heel.” She reached down and pulled off her fancy right shoe, and sure enough the heel was broken about three-quarters of the way up. “Oh, I can’t walk!”

  “Just make it to the front door and I’ll get the car.”

  “Thanks, Joe, baby. You’re the best.”

  She took her other shoe off and walked barefoot to the front and parked herself just inside the entrance door while I retraced our steps toward where I parked two hours before.

  As I turned the corner, I looked down a dark street and couldn’t make out which car in the crowded block was my Mustang. Considering all the loose ends and the risky business I was into, I thought it best to use the tools I had to ensure a little safety. I pulled out my remote key and punched the lights on, and there sat my Mustang, looking all safe and normal about a half block away. But it was dark as an outhouse in the woods, and I didn’t want to be fumbling my keys when I got in, so I hit the remote start button.

  Good God almighty! The sky lit up like a Kennedy Space Center nighttime launch as an explosion sent my car in several different directions and taking a few other cars with it. Somebody was trying to kill me or kill us both. What remained of the Mustang turned into an instant ball of fire.

  I stood there for what seemed like an hour, but was less than twenty seconds. Lights were coming on up and down the block and people were slowly coming out of their houses to find out what the hell happened.

  The image of the whole neighborhood lighting up after the explosion shook me back to reality and I turned toward the restaurant.

  The best thing to do now before the police came and started asking questions would be to call a cab, which I did––and by the time I got back, Katya and half the people from inside the eatery were outside on the sidewalk yapping.

  Katya standing in her stocking feet and holding her shoes and purse, looked stunned, drained, frightened.

  “Joe, Joe! You’re okay! What was the loud bang? Where’s the car?”

  “We gotta get out of here.” I looked down the street and spotted what looked like a cab turning the corner and heading in our direction. I pulled Katya with me toward the curb as it neared us, and by the time it came to a complete stop I’d shoved her inside and jumped in behind her. Rap noise from the driver’s radio filled the cab.

  “What’s going on?” She seemed breathless.

  “Later.” I barked out the address of our Deerfield Beach motel and told the driver to take the Broad Causeway and Florida Turnpike. A few miles into the trip Katya continued to look at me with a kind of deer-in-the-headlights stare. She leaned toward me and whispered.

  “Was it our car?”

  “Obviously,” I whispered back.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re in a cab, aren’t we?”

  “Somebody must have followed us,” Katya said.

  “Could be anyone, even our federal friends, but my money’s on your ex.”

  “I’m scared, Joe, really badly scared.”

  I glanced up to see if the driver appeared to be paying attention to anything except the noise coming out of his dashboard radio and he wasn’t; but I put my finger across my lips and told Katya to kibosh the talk anyway until we got back to the motel. The first thing on my list when we found some privacy was to call Travis and Rosy, tell ‘em what happened, and get their advice on what to do. Cahoone and his boys were trying to take us out.

  After we got back to the motel, Katya doubled over crying and went out of control. Then and there I made several decisions. First, call the feds and sound ‘em out. Second, dip into our ninety grand cash stash, call a small rental company and find a undistinguished late model car with out-of-state plates. Third, move to a new location, preferably further north. Fourth, get Katya out of town and in a safe place while I figured out our next move.

  Tomorrow would be a busy day.

  The clock on the nightstand was closing in on midnight, so I set it for 6:00 a.m. and stroked my girl’s hair until she stopped crying and fell asleep.

  The last thing she said was, “I’m really scared, Joe–really, really scared.”

  59 – My Paradise Surprise

  After several hours of tossing and turning, I got up a half-hour early and turned off the alarm so it wouldn’t wake Katya.

  By 8:00 a.m. I located a rental with Kansas plates, a dark blue Ford something or other, and the agency was picking me up at nine to do the paperwork. I planned to rent it as Aaron Oaksley, use my old California address and pay cash for a month in advance.

  I also made reservations at a little motel in Boynton Beach almost twenty miles north of Deerfield, and I made reservations for Katya in Nassau at Atlantis on Paradise Island beginning tonight for an indefinite stay. The best part, I decided to join her for the first three days.
>
  The main thing I hadn’t done is phone Travis and Rosy and tell ‘em about last night, dreading what they knew or didn’t know, and what I should say or not say, and whether I might end up behind bars for some as-of-now unknown reason.

  Screw ‘em. I decided to wait and contact ‘em after my trip to Paradise Island with Katya, but I did let Ramon know that I was taking a little vacation for a couple of days.

  A few minutes later my cell phone vibrated and the guy from the car rental agency said he was in front of the motel, so I woke Katya, told her to pack up for our relocation to our new motel up the coast, and that I’d be back in a half-hour with breakfast.

  +++

  While I smacked over my pancakes with sausage, and Katya picked over hers, I sprung my Paradise Island surprise. Strange, she didn’t act excited in the least. Not even an “Oh, Joe!”

  “Do you really think we can leave now?”

  “If we ask enough people, someone will tell us no, so we do what we want to do and I’ll tell ‘em about last night when I get back. You stay in Nassau until we know it’s safe for you to come home.”

  “I don’t know, Joe, I just don’t know if either of us are doing the right thing.” Just what I needed, Katya’s full support.

  60 – Black Twenty-six Twice

  We loaded up our stuff and checked into the out-of-the-way Sunny Motor Inn in Boynton Beach, and by the time we unloaded it was time to pack for the one o’clock flight from Ft. Lauderdale to Nassau. We were the last two to board before they slammed the door of the Airbus and blasted off for Paradise.

  We were both so exhausted we slept all the way, from lift off to touch down, a whole fifty-five minutes.

  +++

  And paradise it was. Blue skies and green lights from get-go. We got there in plenty of time to don our bathing suits, me in my gray Speedo and Katya in her pink bikini. Whatta pair. Yeah, us too; but I was referring to Katya’s ample rack, which was turning every head on Lagoon Beach–the men looking longingly and happy, and the women looking envious, and mad as hell at their boyfriends and mates.