Any second now. Better get out of the line of fire, pal.
Scarne squinted at the trees. Hard to concentrate. He spotted small buds at the end of some leaves. Not even mangroves. Probably Green Buttonwoods, which also loved standing water and were often mistaken for mangroves. Or maybe that other tree, the one with the funny name. What was it?
“Gumbo Limbo,” he said loudly, just to piss them off. Was the dance named for it? Interesting. She would know.
Hit by a wave of dizziness, Scarne began sagging to the side. That wouldn’t do! He straightened up. The man in front of him noticed and gave him a nod of respect, then looked past him to his partner and smiled. There was a blinding flash.
***
“That’s a croc,” the charter captain shouted.
Al Russo was startled. He and his fishing partner were debating the respective pennant chances of the New York Yankees and the Tampa Bay Rays and he’d just boldly predicted a runaway for his beloved Yanks. They were going flat out just off Big Pine and he didn’t understand how the captain could hear them over the wind and engine noise. Hell, I can barely hear myself.
“I didn’t know you were a Ray’s fan, Skipper,” he shouted at the captain.
“What the hell are you talking about,” the captain yelled, pointing toward shore. “That’s a croc. Big bastard. Must be 12-foot if he’s an inch.”
Russo and the other man, Mike Carman, a fellow orthodontist from the Miami suburb of Kendall, followed the finger as the boat slowed and the bow turned toward what they could now see was a huge reptile.
There were a million alligators in Florida, or one for every 22 humans. (Hungry gators were beginning to narrow that ratio in their favor, not to mention decimating the poodle population in some upscale golf resorts.) But the American crocodile is rare; there are fewer than 500 left in the state. They reside primarily in the southernmost tip and the Keys where food is abundant and the habitat, consisting of swamps and inlets, ideal for ambush hunting.
“Grab your cameras.”
The two dentists fished the Keys whenever they could and had seen as many alligators as teeth. They squinted toward the beach 200 yards away. In the early-morning light, it looked like just another alligator. But they weren’t about to argue with the captain, a grizzled bear of a man with sun-hardened skin. The son of a bitch could spot a fish under the goddamn water. Neither had ever seen an American crocodile in the wild, let alone photographed one. The snook and tarpon could wait.
As they got nearer they recognized the long snout that differentiated a crocodile from the broad-nosed American alligator. The croc was moving slowly backward along the mix of beach and mud flats toward the ocean and appeared to be dragging a large bundle of clothes.
“Mike, flip me those binoculars,” the charter captain said. “Quick!”
He looked toward shore and then cursed, gunning the engine. The fishermen fell to the deck.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Ignoring them, he poured on the power, aiming directly for the crocodile.
“That’s a body he’s dragging. Probably washed up. That croc is scavenging. Grab a paddle, gaff, whatever. We have to scare it away.”
The two men looked at the crocodile, which as they got closer appeared to be a lot longer than 12-feet, and then at each other. But they did as they were told. This would be something to tell the grandkids. Hopefully.
The captain just wanted to spook the croc. His passengers appeared to be game. He sure didn’t want to pull his .357 Magnum out of the sea locker. Probably would get 20 years for killing the damn thing.
All three men started shouting as the boat approached the shore. A wave caught the stern and it grounded onto the beach just short of the animal. Russo was pitched onto the sand, where he had a face-to-face with the annoyed reptile, which released its hold on the body and backed off a few feet, hissing.
“Watch it, Al!”
Russo needed no encouragement to “watch it.” He sprang back, tripping over the body, which let out a low moan.
The rest was anticlimax. The crocodile, looking for a docile (as in already dead) breakfast, had no argument with three madmen. Even the breakfast was stirring. That was too much. The croc hissed again at the wildly gesticulating trio and then trundled majestically into the water, its powerful tail propelling it toward a nearby cut that would take it inland, where there was easier – and better mannered – prey.
The men bent to the now coughing bundle.
“Jesus, his hands are tied,” Russo said.
“Clear his mouth but watch his head,” Carman said. “Look at that gash. Somebody conked him pretty good.”
“Probably a drug hit gone wrong,” the Captain said. “Lucky bastard.”
CHAPTER 53 – BREAKAGE
The ocean water off Harvey Cedars on New Jersey’s Long Beach Island is frigid in late April. The air is brisk and the beach deserted, especially at dawn.
Scarne ran a mile along the tide line before encountering anyone else, a lone fisherman bundled against the chill, standing knee-deep in the surf. From the size of the man’s rod, Scarne knew he was after striped bass. The man, his breath condensing in the air, looked back at Scarne. His smile said, “Yeah, I know I’m crazy.” Scarne, who had caught nice stripers off this very stretch of beach, sometimes in a freezing rain, gave him a friendly wave. He didn’t think the man was crazy at all.
***
After his rescue by the dentists, Scarne spent a week in a Miami hospital, where he fielded a slew of questions from various incredulous Federal, state and local cops, including Paulo and Curley, who kept telling him to at least get a lawyer. He knew they were trying to help him but he refused. He didn’t care. By the time Bobo walked in with one of the Florida Sambuca family retainers, he’d told the authorities just about everything that had happened since Sheldon Shields first approached him.
The Sambuca lawyer, a wizened old pro named Stanley Steckler, threw everyone but Bobo out of the room and read Scarne the riot act, calling him a “first-class idiot” and reminding him that “these fucking rednecks down here still use the electric chair for traffic violations” so in the future “just shut your fucking trap.” Then he heard Scarne out and went “to see the D.A. and make a coupla’ calls.”
He came back the next day with a bag of knishes and a smile. Scarne still didn’t have much of an appetite, which worked well for Bobo, who quickly commandeered the bag.
“There are no bodies and the boat dock was as clean as an Intel chip lab,” Steckler said. “They found two cars, a Lamborghini registered to the Ballantrae Group, which is collapsing as we speak, and a shot-to-pieces, souped-up Mustang registered to Josh Shields. No blood stains on or near the cars, but it’s been raining heavily in the Keys. There’s just enough evidence to corroborate your story, but not enough to bring charges against you. Between your new friends down here and your old ones in New York, the various prosecutors don’t seem inclined to pursue this. Considering the stuff I usually handle for the Sambucas on a regular basis, I could beat this rap with my eyes closed. I’m not sure the cops believe all of it, anyway. And I can’t say I blame them. That leaves only the dead guy in Antigua, which everybody says was self defense.”
Steckler looked at Scarne and shrugged.
“Of course, I’m not sure how his family back in Seattle looks at it. I know something about ‘families’.”
“Dudley knows some people out there,” Bobo mumbled through a mouth full of knish. “He’s making some calls.”
Before leaving the hospital, Scarne heard from Sealth.
“The Bruttis are calling it a wash. Breakage. Carlo tried to kill you and you did what you had to do. Besides, you killed the guy who murdered Maria Brutti. And the call from your pal certainly helped. If he’s got that much clout out here, tell him not to visit. I’ve got enough trouble.”
“What about Boyko?”
“He’s back, as if nothing ever happened. I can’t be sure, but I think he
also put in a word for you. After all, by killing Garza and Keitel, you solved a lot of problems for both families. Not to mention icing the broad.”
Sealth paused.
“Didn’t mean that, kid. I wasn’t thinking.”
***
Scarne ran another mile and then headed back to Dudley Mack’s five-bedroom oceanfront home he’d been using for a week while trying to get back into shape. Dudley had left Scarne alone, except for alternately sending his sisters and Bobo Sambuca to check on him every couple of days and bring in some home cooking. The girls tried to tease him out of his mood. For the first time in their lives, it didn’t work.
“I’m worried about him,” Alice told her brother. “He’s not acting like Jake. It’s not the wounds. He’s getting around. But it’s like he’s, I don’t know, broken. What the hell happened in Florida?”
Mack was noncommittal.
“Jake has to work this out. He’ll be OK. We just have to give him time.”
Scarne started out sleeping a lot, and reading. Except for the occasional phone conversation with Evelyn, he spent his time on long walks on the beach that eventually became jogs, then runs. He tried not to think of Alana, but, of course, that wasn’t possible. She had been a monster, no better in the beginning than Ballantrae, Garza and Keitel. And yet he loved her.
Scarne had no illusions. There was something about her that fascinated him when he should have been repelled. What did that say about him? A part of him had died on that boat. But which part? The man he always thought he was or the part that could love a woman like Alana? He knew exactly what she was, and yet if she walked in the door now he would rush into her arms. Who was the monster?
***
After two weeks, he called Dudley. They went for an early dinner at Kubel’s, a seafarer’s tavern near Barnegat Light. They took a table under the gaping, bleached white, skeletonized jaws of a whale shark.
“Just looking at it makes me hungry,” Dudley said looking up as they sat. “Reminds me of a cheerleader who gave blow jobs at college frat parties.”
It was the off season and the restaurant was quiet but for a few grizzled locals who glanced their way before going back to their shots and beers. From their table, Scarne and Mack could see several men in cloth caps and hip boots washing down two large fishing boats at the nearby docks. They had the look about them of men enjoying their work.
“Those boats were used in The Perfect Storm,” Dudley said. “Swordfishing isn’t what it used to be. Stocks have been virtually wiped out. Average fish caught now is about 250 pounds; used to be about a thousand. It’s why I don’t order swordfish anymore. I hear that most of the sword boats have been converted into shrimpers. They needed a couple to play the Andrea Gale and the other boat that had the woman captain.” He pointed to the bar. “And this place was supposedly the inspiration for the tavern in the movie, although you’d think they could find a good seaport gin mill in Rhode Island. Anyway, those two boats made the trip to New England; the bar didn’t.”
Scarne looked at his friend affectionately. He knew Dudley was trying to cheer him up.
The house specialty was clam pot pie, which tasted a lot better than it sounded. They drank Rolling Rocks out of a frosted bucket. Scarne pulled a folded manila envelope from the pocket of his yellow rain slicker.
“I want to get this to Emma Shields, in person. Can you see to it? I don’t want some secretary opening it.”
Mack looked dubious.
“Why don’t you call her? If you want to get something off your chest, are you sure you want anything on paper?”
“If the cops wanted to prosecute me, they have everything they need. I owe her an explanation but I’m not interested in seeing her. If you don’t want to do it, say so.”
Mack grabbed the envelope from Scarne’s hand.
“Don’t be a smartass. I’ll hand deliver it to her myself. Given your recent track record, the broad’s probably better off without you.” He saw the look on Scarne’s face. “Sorry.” Then to lighten the moment, he said, “Why do I think there’s also a check in the envelope? You’re returning your fee, aren’t you?”
Scarne almost smiled.
“That settles it. The way you throw around money, you buy the damn dinner.”
Two days later Scarne went back to his apartment in Manhattan and his doctors reluctantly cleared him to go back to work.
CHAPTER 54 – A FEARSOME PRICE
Evelyn stuck her head into his office.
“Randolph and Emma Shields are here.”
Scarne looked at her.
“Show them in.”
“Are you OK, Jake?”
“Show them in, honey.”
Evelyn held the door for them.
“Would you like some coffee?”
During his recuperation Evelyn had purchased a state-of-the-art machine that made everything from cappuccino to iced-tea. It looked like a Mars rover and she was proud she was the only one who knew how to work it.
“No, thank you,” Randolph Shields said. “We won’t be long.”
Evelyn looked disappointed and closed the door as she left.
Scarne stood but didn’t extend his hand. Neither did Randolph Shields.
“It’s nice to see you, Emma. Please sit down.”
Shields looked like he would rather remain standing but when his daughter sat so did he.
“My daughter told me about the letter. Why you didn’t send it to me?”
‘What can I do for you, Mr. Shields?”
Shields stared at Scarne. Finally, he said, “The people who murdered my brother and his son are dead. I know you had a part in that and my sources tell me you were injured in the process. I would like you to elaborate.”
“Mr. Shields, I don’t mean to be rude, but everything you need is in the letter, including the names of federal and state officers now dismantling what’s left of the Ballantrae organization. It will keep your writers busy for months. I’m sure that with Victor Ballantrae dead, there won’t be a conflict of interest.”
Shields reddened.
“That’s a cheap shot, Mr. Scarne. There ceased to be a conflict when my brother was murdered. A murder for which I must hold you partly responsible”
“Father! That’s enough.” Emma Shields hadn’t raised her voice, but she now commanded the room. “Jake was almost killed trying to set things right. And I think he knows he was just out of line.”
“Your daughter is right, Mr. Shields,” Scarne said, and he meant it. “I apologize to you both for that. I’m tired. And I’m sick of the whole affair.”
Randolph Shields sighed deeply.
“I loved my brother, Mr. Scarne, and Josh. When all is said and done, the people responsible for their deaths have paid a fearsome price. And I suspect you have, too.”
He stood up, as did Scarne, and extended his hand. They shook.
“Come along, Emma.”
“I’ll be right there, Papa,” she said, standing to escort her father out the door, which she closed and then walked over to Scarne. “I spoke to your friend, Mr. Mack, and a Detective Sealth. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have to kill someone you love.”
Emerald Shields put her hand behind Scarne’s head and kissed him full on the lips, then walked out the door.
***
Evelyn came into his office holding a package.
“Messenger just dropped this off.” She placed it on the desk in front of him. She looked as if she wanted to say something, then apparently thought better of it and went out, shutting the door quietly.
I seem to be getting a lot of packages lately, he thought. This one was about the size of a shoe box. Scarne picked it up and felt its heft. There was nothing other than his name and address and a bold “PERSONAL” on the brown wrapping. He used a knife to cut through the masking tape. Inside was a metal box. He opened it and stared at the blue-black Bersa Thunder. He finally lifted the gun out and saw the note, handwritten in a thick, but legible, scrawl
:
“You have the balls of a Ukrainian. A firearm without serial numbers may be valuable to you. It is only a piece of metal. It has no memory. Nor should you. I would advise you to use it soon. But if you and I should meet again, let us try not to kill each other.”
There was no signature, just the letter “B.”
THE END
BOOK II, MADMAN’S THIRST, FOLLOWS
MADMAN’S THIRST
A Jake Scarne Thriller
By Lawrence De Maria
“If him whom God destroys He maddens first,
Then thy destruction slake thy madman’s thirst.”
-- George Herbert Clarke
PROLOGUE
The Hechler-Koch roared in the confined space of the shooting booth and its spent 9MM shell casings bounced and pinged on the concrete floor. The 20 total shots had taken less than 30 seconds. Scarne ejected the empty magazine and rammed another one home. He worked the slide and resumed firing. When he finally put the automatic down, the smell of cordite was heavy in the air.
Scarne took off his ear protection and pushed the button that would bring the man-silhouette back to him from its position 50 feet down range. As the target whirred closer, even at a distance he could see that there was little left of the face and the area where the heart would be.
“That’s some shooting, Jake.”
Scarne took the shredded target from its holder and turned around. He hadn’t seen the other man enter the range. Fred somebody, F.B.I., from the Anti-Terrorism Task Force. A few Bureau agents on Police Commissioner Richard Condon’s “not assholes” list got to use the secret N.Y.P.D. range in the basement of an old Borders bookstore on 21st Street and Sixth Avenue in the Flatiron District of Manhattan, rather than trek out to the 54-acre Police Training Facility at Rodman’s Neck in the Bronx.
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