by Don Travis
Cohen dropped us in front of the Ritz-Carlton, a hotel posing as an oversized Italian villa on Biscayne Bay. We passed into the clutches of a doorman, who summoned a bellboy to handle our meager luggage. One wall of the marble-studied lobby where I registered was a huge pane of glass that looked out onto a garden courtyard. When we arrived in our room, Paul walked straight out onto the balcony to take in the view of the bay. One of those sea breezes Cohen had promised showed up to ruffle his hair.
Traveling, even in a sealed container with filtered air like the Boeing, always made me feel gritty, so we shared a shower and played around a little before grabbing a badly needed catnap. We’d only snatched sleep where we could in airports and planes over the past twenty-four hours. Paul slept a couple of hours before starting to get restless, so I dragged myself out of bed. We dressed and headed downstairs to the Bizcaya Grill.
I chose the caprese salad for my antipasto; Paul settled on ricotta potato gnocchi. The salmon milanese served as my principale; he went for the certified Angus filet. We both passed on wine in anticipation of some club-hopping later. Paul ate with gusto and declared it a feast. I agreed. After the meal I pulled up the Gay Miami website on my laptop. We decided to try Club Sugar on SW 32nd.
When the taxi dropped us at what appeared to be a liquor store in a primarily residential area, I wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. But once through the doors, we were assaulted by loud music, blinding strobe lights, and a blast from a locomotive air horn. We learned later the DJ alternated between the horn and a police siren, as the mood hit him. The place was essentially one big room with two separate bars and a stage built around a dance floor. Although it was almost eleven thirty—late by my standards—the place was only semifull. The show, advertised as a transvestite dancer, wasn’t scheduled to begin until 2:00 a.m.
The crowd consisted of an eclectic group ranging from shirtless young men to gussied-up mixed couples to flamboyant queens in feathers and glitter. We claimed a table near the dance floor and ordered a couple of six-dollar beers.
I’m not much of a salsa dancer, but Paul coaxed me out on the floor to try a couple of numbers. After that he gave up on me and accepted offers from guys, gals, and a few who pretended to be one but were probably the other.
I sat at our table and watched him indulge in the second grand passion of his life. Swimming, of course, claimed the first. But he was also a great dancer, moving like water over smooth rocks, undulating with the rhythm of the pulsing music. I watched a couple of his partners put the moves on him, but he declined with a nod in my direction. It made me proud.
“Your friend’s the hottest thing in the club.” I turned to face a well-dressed Hispanic about my age. The type I called “slick,” mostly because of his black hair pomaded flat against the sides of his head. He sported a pencil mustache. “I saw you come in together,” he explained. “May I sit?”
I indicated a chair and nodded. “Sure. My name’s BJ.”
“Carlos.” Neither of us offered to shake hands. He glanced at the dance floor and smiled, revealing large white teeth. “You had better keep an eye on him. He’s exactly what most people here are looking for. The Cubanos desire him because he looks Anglo, and the Anglos will fight over him because he appears Latin. He’s a charming blend of the two, no?”
Discussing Paul like a commodity, which, of course, he was to many here, made me uncomfortable. “Yes, he is… in addition to being a fantastic human being.”
“You are a visitor to Miami?”
“Yes. And you?”
“Born here, although not long after my parents arrived from Cuba. May I ask what brings you to Miami? Tourism? Business?”
Simple paranoia, a trait many investigators consider mandatory, put me on guard. “A combination. I’m on business.” I inclined my head toward the dance floor. “He’s on vacation.”
Although the club wasn’t crowded, the loud music made it seem so. A conversation was difficult without leaning close to one another, which made me uncomfortable. Nonetheless, I was as curious about this Carlos fellow as he appeared to be about me. He asked his questions, and I asked mine.
Within fifteen minutes I knew he had been put on my tail by Hammond. Furthermore, he knew that I knew. That cleared the air considerably. By then he had ordered two rounds of drinks, but I still sipped on the first, letting him know I had no intention of getting drunk and careless.
During a break in the music, Paul returned to the table, escorted by his most recent dance partner, who clearly wanted to join us but was discouraged by Paul’s casual “Thanks, man.” I introduced him to Carlos.
“¡Con mucho gusto!” Carlos said.
“Same,” Paul responded. “You come here often?”
“No, not often. It doesn’t quite live up to its name. I can recommend some clubs, if you wish. Some more… uh, interesting places, perhaps?”
“This one’s fine. Just looking to do some dancing. Nothing more,” Paul said.
“Then you will break the hearts of most of the muchachos here.”
He gave the man an innocent stare. “I doubt that, but thanks.”
Carlos wasn’t going to give me any more than I was going to give him, so I brought things to a head. “Look, if your boss thinks he can lean on me because we visited a gay club, tell him he’s out of luck. Half the state knows I’m gay. I’m fireproof on this.”
He spread his hands. “Why would one man in a gay bar try to blackmail another man in that same gay bar?”
“I can think of a couple of reasons, but it won’t work.”
“I can see I am interfering with your night out on the town. I’ll excuse myself now, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
He rose, gave us a smile, and took his leave. We watched him walk out of the club.
“What was that all about?” Paul asked.
“Hammond put a minder on our tail.”
“How? I mean, how would anybody find us in the middle of millions of people?”
“All you need is a starting place, and they knew we started at the Lazy M. They just followed the trail from there.”
“Why?”
“Hammond doesn’t know why I’m coming, and he wants all the ammunition he can gather.”
“Well, hell, that puts a damper on the evening.”
“Sorry. You want to try another place?”
“I’m kinda tired, but I’m charged up too. I’d just as soon go back to the hotel room. Be with you.”
I matched the smile on his lips. “All right by me. But I need to do something first.”
I made my way to the bar and caught the eye of a bartender, a cute Hispanic who appeared to be a little older than most of the other servers. He finished a drink for a man on a stool midway down the counter and came over to give me his full attention.
“I need to buy a couple of rolls of quarters.”
His expressive eyes narrowed. “Something going down?”
“Nothing definitive. Just a feeling.”
He motioned me around to the end of the bar. “I’ll sell you the coins, but if you’re right, this’ll work better than a roll of quarters.” Leaning forward to shield his movements, he opened his hand to reveal a small leather blackjack. It looked mean and ugly.
“Okay, but I’ll still need a roll for my friend.”
“Nah. I got another one of these.” He reached under the counter and then slid both hands across the bar toward me. When he moved back, napkins covered two lumps on the counter. I slid them into my pocket and handed him two $100 bills. “Thanks. We don’t allow anybody to hassle our customers. Let me know when you’re ready to leave, and I’ll have one of the bouncers keep an eye on you.”
“Thanks. We’re leaving now.”
“Give me a minute, okay?”
I nodded and returned to the table. Paul rose and glanced at me in surprise when I pressed the sap into his palm.
He glanced at it quickly. “You expecting trouble?”
“I didn’t
like the way Carlos said good-bye. Might be nothing, and that’s probably exactly what it is. But we need to be ready if trouble comes. Let’s go. Keep your eyes open.”
A six-foot-four bouncer nodded as he held the door open. Then he followed us outside. I expected the night air to be cooler—as it would be back home once the sun went down—leaving us with a balmy Florida night.
“You guys have a car?” the bouncer asked.
“No. We need a taxi.”
“There’s usually one around. You stay put, and I’ll see if I can get you one, okay?”
Our escort stepped to the curb, looked in both directions, and then headed off to the left. Paul moved out onto the sidewalk to watch his progress. After hesitating for a moment, I started to follow.
They came at us like shadows out of the night. I caught a blur of movement and shouted a warning a second before the thug reached Paul. Then I had an assailant of my own to deal with. A thick, squat man lunged with a blade in his hand. I sidestepped and brought my hand up under his extended arm. The blackjack caught him squarely on the chin. He staggered but didn’t go down. I pivoted and landed another blow to his temple. He dropped to his knees and toppled over.
I whirled to see Paul in a desperate dance with his attacker. He struggled to hold on to the man’s knife arm with his left hand while his right fumbled in his pocket. I darted forward, but before I reached him, Paul popped the sap against the man’s throat. The hoodlum grunted. Paul slammed his knee into his opponent’s groin and then calmly thumped the man’s noggin with the weighted leather, sending him facedown on the sidewalk.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Paul yelped.
Alarmed, I rushed to his side. “What is it? Are you all right?”
“He slashed my shirt. My best shirt.”
“There’s blood on it. Are you hurt?”
“Just a scratch. But, damn, it’s my favorite shirt.”
The bouncer came running up and took in the situation with a practiced eye. “You guys get outta here before somebody calls the cops. There’s a taxi coming down the street. Don’t worry about these guys. I’ll take care of them.”
I thanked the bouncer and shoved a sizeable bill and the two blackjacks into his hand. The taxi had stopped short of us, and I was afraid the sight of two men sprawled on the pavement would send the driver racing away. But he held on while we bundled into the backseat. He appeared nervous until I told him to drop us at the Ritz-Carlton. Apparently nobody from the Ritz-Carlton would be involved in such shenanigans, because he settled down and drove away at a leisurely pace.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked.
Paul gave me an irritated look. “I’m fine. How about you?”
“Mine didn’t even get a piece of my clothing.” My crack broke the tension.
“That’s because you saw them. I was blindsided.”
“You did okay for a blindsided hick from the hinterlands.”
“BJ, was that a gay bashing? Or was there more to it than that?”
“I think it’s more than that.”
“Man, Millicent’s duck must be one hell of a bird to kick up this much trouble.”
We were silent the rest of the way, each nursing his own thoughts. Paul waited until I paid the cab driver and then trailed behind me as we entered the lobby. He was, I gathered, trying to keep anyone from seeing his slashed shirt. We made it to the room without incident, although we entered cautiously.
After snapping on the light, I made a careful search of the room, including the closet and shower in the bath. Upon finding no intruders, I closed the door behind us and pulled the shirt over Paul’s head. He had a small cut on his left side. A mere scratch, as he said. Nonetheless, I got a first-aid kit from my bag and applied some antiseptic. He balked at covering it with a patch, preferring to stand bare-chested on the balcony and take in the lights from the boats on the bay while the medicine dried. I went out to stand beside him.
After a long, comfortable silence, he spoke. “Life sure gets interesting around you.”
“Just trying to prepare you for a life of investigative reporting, that’s all.”
His laugh, like a velvet fog, floated through the tropical night.
Chapter 26
THE NEXT morning, Paul tried out the hotel’s blue-tiled swimming pool while I went to meet Hammond. I’d called Bob Cohen last night and reported our adventure. Although he expressed doubt the developer would stoop to doing us physical harm, I couldn’t separate the attack outside Club Sugar from the earlier appearance of Carlos at our table, so I was a little nervous over Paul’s safety.
Still on edge, I presented myself to the receptionist at the Kenneth G. Hammond Development, Inc. offices on the tenth floor of a high-rise on Brickell Avenue, in the midst of the city’s international banking center. The curvaceous redhead behind the desk immediately picked up a white phone and informed someone on the other end I was waiting.
A busty woman of forty fighting to look thirty-five showed up a minute later. Her makeup—while thick—was so professionally applied you noticed it only up close. Pretty but not spectacular, in part because her hair made me think of a tiger: black roots, blonde dye job, and rusty tips.
“Mr. Vinson, I’m Josefina, Mr. Hammond’s executive aide. Will you follow me, please?”
Attaché case in hand, I trailed her deeper into the entrails of the building. The impression I wasn’t being shunted off to some reception area to await Mr. Hammond’s pleasure proved premature. He had a waiting room in his private suite. Josefina indicated a seat, offered me a choice of coffee or tea, and when I declined, abandoned me to a stack of professional and news magazines. Ten minutes later the place exploded into activity with the appearance of a large human dynamo through an obviously private entryway. A six-foot-three, sunburned, sandy-haired man, whom I assumed to be Hammond—trailed by a couple of minions in white hard hats—began issuing orders left and right. He paused at Josefina’s desk and learned I sat not fifteen feet away.
He immediately dismissed everyone and came over to offer a beefy hand. From his grip, I knew he had spent many of his sixty-odd years out in the field doing hard labor before building his construction company. After the introductions, he begged five minutes to get settled, which I, of course, granted.
Precisely 300 seconds later, Josefina ushered me into one of the largest private offices I had ever seen. One entire wall was floor-to-ceiling windows, giving glimpses of both the city and the bay. A massive desk anchored one end of the room; a small conference area with easy chairs and a coffee table occupied the center. The far end held a drafting table and some sort of computer setup that I associated with architectural drafting and design.
Not even a blotter marred the gleaming teak surface of his desk. The usual pen and pencil, calendar, and other accessories rested on the credenza behind him. Still wearing the neatly buttoned double-breasted coat of an ivory linen suit, he rested his elbows on the naked desk and leaned forward. A lock of white-blond hair falling over one of his hazel eyes gave him the look of an oversized, aging pixie.
“How is Millicent these days?”
“She’s fine. She asked me to give you her regards.”
“Please convey mine to her.”
“Certainly. I propose we skip the pleasantries and get down to business.”
“That suits me.” He glanced at his watch, as any busy nabob would have at this juncture. “Why are you here?”
“I thought that would be obvious. I’ve come to secure your agreement to cancel the duck-racing bet.”
“And why would I cancel a bet I am assured of winning?”
“Possibly to avoid becoming involved in a criminal investigation regarding the theft of her racer.”
“Why would that bother me? I didn’t take Quacky. Nor did I have a hand in her theft.”
“Personally, I’m prepared to believe you. I don’t think you took her, but one of your associates did, and in doing so, he committed a felony.”
“Ah yes, the insurance company. I imagine the size of the claim would lift an otherwise inconsequential act to the level of a felony. Have they agreed to pay Mud’s claim on the duck?” Apparently Millicent’s nickname had migrated all the way to the Gulf Coast.
I’d touched base with Del last night and learned no decision had been reached. That meant a debate raged within the insurance company over it, which I considered a positive development. Now I chose to interpret it in the most favorable manner possible, as a pending approval. “That is expected momentarily.”
“Excellent,” Hammond said. “Then this will be a zero-loss situation for my old friend. I collect on the bet without loss to her.”
“I don’t believe she would agree with you on that. She’s still out the most valuable duck in her flock. One she insured for two hundred fifty thousand for a valid reason. That duck was crucial in maintaining the quality of her farm’s pâté and down business.”
“Even so, she won’t take a quarter-of-a-million-dollar loss in one fell swoop. And Mud’s resourceful. She will find an adequate replacement.”
“Easily said, but more difficult in practice. I strongly urge you to consider my request to cancel the bet.”
“Unfortunately, I’m in no position to do that.”
I sat back in the Moroccan leather chair across the broad desk from him and steepled my fingers. “Are you aware an associate of yours is attempting to use the bet to pressure her into selling him the M Lazy M Ranch at a ridiculously low price? In fact, he’s offering to get you to cancel the bet as a part of the deal.”
“Rubbish.”
“I have a tape recording of the offer.”
“Well, whoever it is doesn’t speak for me.”
“You know who it is. It’s the man who’s taking a bigger and bigger share of the wager. Hector Acosta is attempting to steal the ranch by using your duck race—after someone made certain she couldn’t meet the terms of the wager. Just as you couldn’t if her racer hadn’t disappeared.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Please don’t take me for a fool. I have the veterinarian’s reports on Thunder Duck.”
