Redemption Key (A Dani Britton Thriller)

by S. G. Redling

Caldwell shook his head at Oren’s smirk. “You have such a low opinion of me.”

  Dani wiped her hands twice on the towel. She’d nearly cut her fingertip off, her hands shook so badly. She had promised to work the Wheeler meeting. She knew Mr. Randolph appreciated her ability to stay calm around the twitchy men who made everyone at Jinky’s nervous. Even Peg avoided them. She couldn’t say she liked them—she doubted anyone could—but they didn’t scare her. Even when wall-eyed Joaquin tried to slip his hand between her legs, she didn’t panic. She knew what he wanted and that made him easier to handle. A lot easier to handle than what sat at the end of the bar.

  Caldwell. The very first time Dani had laid eyes on the balding man, the very first time she’d seen him climb onto the barstool and fold his arms over the lip of the wood, she’d known who he was. She’d known what he was. Dani’s employment by a government agency might have been unintentional, but she could recognize a willing employee of the state at a hundred paces.

  He didn’t usually carry a gun, although Dani had spied the ungainly bulge at his back once or twice. He didn’t wear the ugly suits that seemed to be regulation for many Feds. He didn’t even flash his badge around like an extension of his dick.

  What gave him away to Dani was the smug confidence that followed him like a smell, confidence that he had authority, immunity, the ability to arrest, and the security of never being arrested. The arrogance of authority showed itself in every peanut he tossed back, every filthy joke he told.

  At first she assumed he was yet another agent sent to check on her like they had on Key West. That never seemed to get old for Uncle Sam. Sometimes the agent or agents made a show of their presence, full suits and dark glasses, standing too close to her and looking down their badges at her. Sometimes they tried to slide in like locals, looking ridiculous in their idea of vacation clothing. They’d try to make idle chitchat with her. After the first few visits she realized they were just there to remind her that she was still in their sights.

  She still hated them. She still had to resist the urge to run. She’d avoided Caldwell as long as possible but she knew she’d wind up having to serve the balding agent his drink. She’d have to let him run his line of patter that would inevitably end with “You being a good girl, Dani?” to which he would expect her to faint in terror. She thought she’d hide her eye roll and that would be the end of it. Then Mr. Randolph had shown up, slapped the man on the back and sat down for a lengthy, friendly conversation.

  And Dani was stuck there with the man watching her like he thought if he stared hard enough he’d be able to see right through her. What did they tell her babysitters? Surely not the truth. From what Dani had been able to tell, nobody knew the truth about Rasmund. So why was Caldwell so interested in her?

  “I’m going to go set up the room, boss.”

  Mr. Randolph wanted a basic wet bar setup in Room Four, just the basics—glasses, ice, napkins, garnishes. Dani would run the liquor and the mixes herself. She knew his logic—her occasional interruptions served as punctuation to the meeting’s rhythm. Her boss used her service as an unspoken reminder that he controlled the scene. If tempers got hot, he’d break in with a suggestion of fresh drinks; if stony silence threatened to stall discussions, he’d send Dani to fetch food. He’d even smoothed over one potentially violent face-off by having Dani pour tequila poppers. Mr. Randolph knew how to control a room.

  “Be sure to get the fan going,” Mr. Randolph said. “I don’t know what this Bermingham guy smells like, but in this heat, you can pretty much bet the Wheelers are going to reek.”

  Dani would sooner be locked naked in a windowless room with every Wheeler in Florida than spend one more moment under the eye of a Fed.

  8:05am, 85° F

  “Hot enough for you?” Caldwell asked.

  “It’s August in Florida,” Oren said.

  “Yeah but it’s not even nine o’clock and it’s got to be ninety degrees already. That’s not Florida hot. That’s Vietnam hot. That’s gunplay-in-the-streets hot.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Caldwell pulled a mint leaf from his glass. “Any idea what the deal is?”

  “Bancroft told me it was antiques.” Oren poked at the lime rind that stuck to the side of the glass. Bancroft was the fence who had hooked him up with the Canadian. “He said there might be some concerns over provenance but that the goods were top shelf, top dollar.”

  “Bancroft has never told the truth in his whole miserable life,” Caldwell said. “You thinking drugs?”

  “It’s the Wheelers, so yeah, you’d think so. But with Vincente in the mix, who knows?”

  Caldwell nodded. “And this Bermingham guy, you know him?”

  “No, I was hoping you could give me some skinny on him. Bancroft got his connection thirdhand from the truck boys in Miami. They worked with a guy who worked with him. He’s an unknown at this point. The little I do know makes Vincente sound like a missionary.”

  “Any idea what the dollar figure is for the deal?”

  “Significant. That’s all Juan Wheeler said. And if it’s big enough for him to keep his mouth shut on the take, it’s either embarrassingly small or large enough to buy his silence. Either way, I’m getting the usual stack for my hospitality.”

  The two men sat in silence, swirling the ice in their glasses in accidental synchronization. “I’ll run a check on the Canadian, usual discreet channels. While I’m at it, I’ll check on your faithful new employee.”

  Oren said nothing. He and Caldwell knew each other too well. If Oren protested the background check, it would just make the agent more curious. If he encouraged it, Caldwell might think Oren agreed with his instinct and dig deeper than absolutely necessary. Oren didn’t know if Dani had anything in her background worth hiding. It could be she’d run from an abusive home or a drug problem. He also didn’t know if Caldwell had seen the scars on her leg and shoulder. They’d be sure to pique the agent’s interest.

  What unsettled him the most, however, wasn’t the odd pitch of Caldwell’s curiosity. It was the memory of that strange smile on Dani’s face. He had the feeling that of the three of them, he was the only one not seeing something obvious.

  A warm breeze blew in from the deck, and Oren wrinkled his nose at the smell. Sour feet and onions. It wasn’t a smell he was likely to mistake.

  “Why don’t you take the front stairs?” He drained his drink and nodded toward the kitchen door. “It looks like Juan wants to get a jump on things.”

  Caldwell fished an ice cube out with his fingers and tossed it in his mouth. “I appreciate your discretion. I don’t need to tell you to keep your eyes open and your guard up. If Vincente wants this Bermingham guy bad enough to get into bed with the Wheelers, odds are nobody’s got anything good in mind.”

  8:22am, 86° F

  Smelling Juan Wheeler before seeing him was nothing unusual. Both Wheelers carried an unmistakable funk about them at all times. The heat didn’t help. The little man took his usual seat on the deck of Jinky’s with his back against the outer wall of the bar, staring at the stairs that came up from the dock. He wore a stained Marlins T-shirt with shiny black dress pants and his signature accessory—neon sneakers. Today’s were pink. Oren didn’t know if anyone had ever survived telling him that his footwear selections were often from the girl’s department. His right hand rested on his lap, Oren knew within easy reach of his Glock.

  The breeze shifted, blowing in from the open water to the left, and Oren could smell Joaquin. He smelled a lot like his brother only with added notes of cigarettes and bacon. Oren didn’t bother to look where Juan stared. Joaquin would be blocking the top of the outer steps, using his lumpish form to keep anyone from joining them on the deck.

  Everything about the Wheelers was bad for business.

  “Good morning, Juan.” Oren pulled up a seat.

  “How you doing?” The high pitch of Juan’s voice never failed to surprise Oren. He suspected that, like the little man’s s
hoe selection, few people survived mocking it. Juan sprawled back in his chair, folding his arms up over his head to catch the breeze, amping up the unpleasant smell. The only plus side to that from Oren’s perspective was that it might keep the breeze from scattering the grainy flecks of dandruff that clung to Juan’s greasy brown hair.

  He wished he’d refreshed his drink.

  “Everything is set up for the meeting this morning. On my end at least. You’ll be in Room Four.” Oren nodded across the inlet to a long, low cinder block unit with four doors. Unlike the four little cottages across the parking lot at the short end of the horseshoe, Oren kept the cinder block units open and ready all year. The cottages were for tourists and fishermen during high season. The cinder block units were for business associates. He’d found the cinder block walls did more to muffle sound and stop bullets than drywall. “You’re early. I told Bermingham nine-thirty.”

  “Yeah.” Juan smiled, doing little to improve his looks. He started to laugh, a high-pitched chittering that forced him to drop his arms. “About that. There might be a change of plans.”

  “Is that such a good idea? It wasn’t easy to find this guy.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” The smile widened, and Oren felt a sick twist in his stomach from more than the sight of Juan’s yellowed teeth. “Mr. Vincente is working out the details. Mr. Vincente is aware of how important this deal is to our Canadian friend.”

  “The less I know the better.”

  Juan slid his hands underneath the table, shifting to reach inside the waistband of his dress pants. He pulled out a stained manila envelope, which he slid across to Oren.

  “Mr. Vincente said to tell you how much he appreciates your help with this matter.”

  Oren stared at the envelope that had been housed in Juan’s underwear. Filthy money in the truest sense of the word. “With all due respect to Mr. Vincente, my help in this matter ends with setting up this meeting.”

  “Yeah,” Juan chittered again. “About that. That’s part of the change of plans.”

  Heavy clomping on the steps distracted him from continuing. Oren saw what made the oafish Wheeler guarding the steps stumble. He could just make out the top of Dani’s head as Joaquin pressed himself hard against the wooden stair rail, great lumps of him squeezing through the slats, to wave Dani through with a swing of his meaty arm.

  He didn’t know how she managed to keep her composure, but Dani just gave the hulking man a small smile and squeezed past him onto the deck. Oren didn’t want to think about what Joaquin Wheeler must smell like at armpit level.

  “Hey, Dani,” Juan said, smiling at his brother. “Good to see you.”

  “Yeah, Dani,” Joaquin wheezed, tugging on the hem of his sweat-stained shirt, effectively highlighting even more of his odd frame. His eyes moved over Dani. “Good to see you.”

  She kept her back to Joaquin. She had to know he was staring at her ass. “Can I get anyone a drink?”

  “Oh God, yes,” Oren sighed.

  Dani snuck a quick glance into the bar. Caldwell was gone. That was good. She didn’t believe in coincidences, though. A federal agent and the Wheeler boys didn’t just happen to show up on the same day before nine in the morning. Had Caldwell’s arrival been a surprise to her boss? Or was it supposed to be a secret from the Wheelers? Either way, it wasn’t her problem. If her boss wanted to play both sides of whatever this deal was, he would play it without her.

  FBI versus the Wheelers. Dani would have been hard-pressed to deem one side less likeable than the other.

  She’d felt Joaquin’s gun when she’d squeezed past him. At least she prayed that was a gun. She’d been so focused on making as little body contact as possible, not just to avoid the feel-up but because she really didn’t want to wear Joaquin’s unique fragrance on her clothes the rest of the morning. The temperatures were supposed to soar today with the humidity right behind it. Nothing was going to get any sweeter this afternoon.

  “Juan?” She waited for the smaller Wheeler to break the giggling eye contact he held with his brother. Judging from the way Mr. Randolph looked elsewhere, she could just imagine the expression on Joaquin’s face. “Can I get you something?”

  “You got Mexi-Coke? You know? Coke from Mexico?”

  “We do.”

  “Good. Good.” Juan drummed his fingers on the table. “It’s made with real sugar, you know that? Real sugar, not that-that-that chemical stuff they use up here. Real sugar.”

  Dani doubted Juan and chemicals had ever been strangers. “Ice?”

  “Two. Yeah, two cubes.” He held up two grimy fingers just in case she didn’t understand the words. He always ordered the same thing—Mexican coke with two ice cubes. Dani knew the specific order made the little man feel like a connoisseur of soft drinks and the better Juan felt about himself, the smoother and briefer his meetings tended to go. She nodded and turned back to Joaquin, slowly enough to give him time to pull his gaze up from her ass. No matter how slowly she turned, however, she was always too quick.

  “Joaquin?” She saw a flush rise beneath his pocked skin. His good eye flickered toward her face and then away. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Same. Same.” Spit flew as he stammered.

  “Two Mexican cokes with ice and another vodka. Be right back.”

  “We’ll be right here,” Juan cackled.

  She caught the long-suffering look on her boss’s face. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the scent of the Wheelers, but the look sent a spark of irritation through her.

  No, she knew what irritated her. “Is your friend joining you, boss?” She tipped her head toward the bar, where he and Caldwell had been moments before. Mr. Randolph’s eyes widened for just a second before he shook his head.

  “Nah, it’s just us. That was just an old fishing buddy passing through.”

  Juan didn’t seem to catch the muffled anxiety in his voice. Mr. Randolph was a better-than-average liar, a skill more difficult than most people understood. Dani graced him with the same noncommittal nod she’d given the Wheelers, and she could see him studying her face as she moved past him.

  8:37am, 87° F

  Jesus Christ. Oren thought his heart would leap from his chest when Dani asked him about Caldwell. Peg might have her suspicions that his buddy was with the FBI, her ability to sense law enforcement honed by years of living in fear of it, but Caldwell always made a point of keeping his head down and his badge out of sight. Oren could think of about a thousand other things he’d rather be discussing in front of the Wheelers. Safe to say, the Wheelers would not be amused at Caldwell’s occupation.

  Bless her heart but Dani had shitty timing.

  He jumped back into conversation as she headed into the bar. “So what’s this change of plan? I didn’t agree to anything else but setting up the meeting.”

  “That’s all you got to do,” Juan said, pulling out a cheap-looking phone. “Set up this meeting and a couple others. You know, this deal is going to take some negotiating. Gimme Bermingham’s number.”

  Oren pulled out the slip of paper he’d been carrying with him since his contact in Miami had passed it on to him. It was just like Juan to expect him to play secretary. He’d only called the Canadian twice, both times from the payphone outside the Winn-Dixie shopping center on Big Pine Key. He didn’t need anyone to trace the calls back to him. The odds were that the number only went to a burner phone, but Oren figured nobody ever regretted being too careful.

  Juan punched the number into his phone, settling back in his seat and giving Oren a wink. Oren hated winks. Nothing good ever followed a wink.

  “Yeah, yeah, how you doing?” Juan smirked as he spoke. “This is in regards to our meeting this morning. Mr. Vincente is making some fine-tuning adjustments to the arrangement.”

  Juan sat up straighter, and Oren could make out an angry tone coming from the phone.

  “No, you don’t make the terms, see? Mr. Vincente, he makes the terms. He sets the deal. He’s got the goo
ds, you toe the line. You got it?” The little man spit when he spoke. “You don’t like the deal, I take our product elsewhere. What’s that?” More shouting and Juan pulled the phone away from his ear to glare at it.

  Great, Oren thought as the sun cleared the trees across the road, falling hot and bright on the deck. Now everybody’s pissed.

  “I’m here with Randolph,” Juan said, nodding to Oren as if checking to see if he was in fact here with him. “I’m going to go over the new plans. You listening? The deal isn’t happening today.” Oren could just make out something shouted on the other end, hearing a lot of words that sounded like duck. “How many ways I got to tell you this, huh? This isn’t your deal to decide. Mr. Vincente has the product; Mr. Vincente makes the rules. That’s how it is. Also: Now we’re doing the exchange right here, right here at Jinky’s.”

  “What?” Oren leaned forward. Juan smiled at him and nodded.

  “Yeah, yeah, here. Google it. They got Google in Canada, right?” Juan spared a moment to point at Joaquin, who thought that line was a lot funnier than Oren did. Oren tried not to notice the spit that rained down from the bigger Wheeler’s laughing mouth. He was glad the sun had hit the deck. It would hopefully dry up the glob of wetness near his foot.

  “I’ll keep you apprised of the new terms.” Juan nodded at Oren again, impressed with his own vocabulary. “Tomorrow morning, same time, same channel. Oh, and Bermingham, if you’re thinking about trying anything like trying to nickel-and-dime Mr. Vincente, trust me, you will regret it. There’s plenty of folks willing to pay top dollar for Mr. Vincente’s product. He wanted me to tell you that he’s only doing this deal with you in the name of—what did he call it?—international relations. Don’t you forget it.”

  The voice on the other end dropped to a more reasonable volume and Juan smiled. “Mr. Vincente is well aware of the heat. Yeah, yeah, and I checked Weather Channel. Seems like it’s just going to get hotter. Mr. Vincente wanted me to remind you of how much riskier this deal becomes the hotter it gets. You’d be smart to keep that in mind in case you’re thinking of pulling anything or trying to screw Mr. Vincente. Mr. Vincente doesn’t like people trying to screw him, you hear me?”