by Matt Day
He looked out over the sparkling waters of the Atlantic Ocean, watching the waves roll in and the sea gulls diving for their dinner. There was a slight breeze blowing in from the east, bringing with it the saltiness that let one know they were near the ocean. He took a deep breath, and then released it, letting the tension of the day drain from his shoulders and his mind.
He couldn’t quit thinking about the three dead bodies on the fishing boat. Pat Maclean was one of the good guys, always willing to lend a hand where needed; and while he was a little gruff around the edges, Charlie had never known him to be a fighter.
He thought back to his cursory examination of the wheelhouse and below deck. Nothing had seemed to be amiss; there was no obvious damage, no indications of theft, and he realized there had been no fish in the hold. That was curious indeed!
Captain Maclean was known for always bringing home a cargo hold full of fish, even when others came home with nothing. Had a rival fishing crew taken the “Big Mama’s” catch in a bid for supremacy of prime fishing grounds?
Charlie had seen other instances where the competition was eliminated, but never in the fishing world. Most fishermen lived by the “first come, first served” philosophy when it came to claiming fishing grounds.
He thought a while longer, plausible explanations entering his head and then being discarded. Maybe the perpetrators had been after the unidentified man; come to settle a score with him, and Pat Maclean and Jacob Parker had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now that made more sense to Charlie. Who was the strange man, and why had he been on Pat’s boat?
Charlie headed back to his car, leaving the top down once again, as he headed north from whence he had just come. Pushing thoughts of the day’s events from his mind, he looked forward to seeing what his friend Bill had on the menu for dinner at the Seabreeze Café.
Maybe he’d run his ideas by Bill while he was there. Bill had acted as his sounding board more than once, and Charlie oftentimes was able to put the pieces into the correct order after talking with the old guy. Yes, he’d grab some dinner and then have a chat with Bill about the day’s events.
He’d also give Wally a call. Wally was his first cousin on his mother’s side, his aunt being Charlie’s mother’s older sibling.
Walter William Sterling, or Wally to his friends, was as easy going, and as laid back as they came. Except for when he was working. Wally knew how to get things done and wasn’t afraid of getting dirty in the process. Lately, he had begun selling and installing the latest modern convenience, window air conditioners, in the area. He had seen them on a trip to Miami the year before, and was convinced that they would be very popular in Daytona. And it turned out he was right!
Charlie had utilized Wally’s initiative on more than one occasion when a difficult case had required more than one person to solve it. Wally was definitely his go-to man. With all of the spectators, racers, and tourists in town right now, he was definitely going to need some help locating a kid who didn’t want to be found!
Charlie’s specialty was finding lost things, whether they be hidden treasures, or missing people. Shoot, he’d even located a missing cat for old Miss Cartwell once. The poor thing had climbed up a tree, then onto the roof of the house, and then forgotten how to get down.
Charlie had finally climbed the tree himself, only to find one very drenched, very angry cat, clinging to the edge of the chimney, claws dug into the wooden shingles and very unhappy when Charlie had tried to pull it free.
Wally had come to the rescue, having raced through the house, climbing out the nearest dormer window and tossing a pillowcase to Charlie. Between the two of them, they had been able to snatch the cat from the roof, then re-enter the house through the window. Charlie had been overjoyed that he hadn’t had to figure out how to climb down the tree, and reunited Miss Cartwell with her precious Fluffy.
Fluffy has hissed, scratched, and clawed the men and Charlie had eagerly handed the writhing sack over to its owner, declining payment, only wanting to leave the house before the cat was released.
He and Wally had scurried from the house, laughing as the sound of breaking glass was followed by Miss Cartwell scolding the cat in a very polite manner. His work was always interesting, and that was part of what helped him get up each morning. You never knew what was going to happen!
Chapter 8
The Seabreeze Café was one of Charlie’s favorite spots to hang out, meet new clients, or just relax after a long day on the job. It was located north of Orange Avenue on A1A, across the street from the Skyline Hotel.
As he neared his destination, he noticed the parking lot of the hotel was filled to overflowing and he grinned as he thought about the stock car races that would be happening this coming weekend. Noticing several motorbikes in the lot, he figured the race organizers must have been doing a bike race as well.
Finding a place to park on a side street, he put the top up on the car, before heading towards the cozy and inviting café.
“Good evening, Charlie,” called Bill, the owner and head chef, from behind the counter as Charlie entered the café. It was decorated in the classic style of the day. Large black and white tiles adorned the floors, while the booths and tables were made from shiny aluminum and red vinyl. A large jukebox set in the corner, and the final strains of Jerry Lee Lewis’s “Great Balls of Fire” caught his attention, bringing forth a smile.
Charlie was still smiling as he chose his usual booth near the back of the café, noticing there were only a few other customers so early in the evening. A booth on the far side of the café held four men who appeared to him to be Cuban, two of them had women sitting on their knees.
Charlie started to discretely give them the once over, but then noticed that they were also watching him. Deciding that it might be wiser to make his observations a little later, he ignored their pointed stares and took in the other occupants. An elderly couple who Charlie had seen eating in the café many times in the past was seated towards the front. And one of the priests from St. Peter’s church was dining at the counter.
When the priest looked up and caught Charlie watching him, he gave him a warm smile and a small wave, saying, “Charlie, we missed you at Mass Sunday.”
“Sorry, Father. I had an emergency run down to Miami. I’ll be there this Sunday though, you can count on it.” Charlie gave the priest a smile and quickly made a mental note to make sure he was in attendance come Sunday morning.
He’d already heard about his absence from both his mother and his two sisters. It seemed that in their estimation, missing Sunday Mass was akin to killing someone! Deep down, Charlie struggled with how he related to God after the sudden death of his wife and daughter. It was something he needed to get counseling about; he just wasn’t sure who to approach about it.
“No worries, son.” The priest got up from his booth, bringing his coffee cup with him, “Mind if I join you? I was just finishing up.”
“No, please, have a seat.” Charlie sat up a little straighter, all of the lessons of his youth coming back to put him on his best behavior in front of the priest.
“Thank you.” Father Michael sat himself down and then looked Charlie in the eye before asking, “Are you doing alright?”
Charlie was a little confused about the question, but he nodded his head slowly, “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Father Michael gave him a look of sympathy before saying, “I know that you are the man who discovered poor Pat Maclean. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been. From what the police told me, it appears the man was murdered.”
Charlie was amazed at how quickly news had traveled. To his knowledge, the Coast Guard hadn’t even brought the “Big Mama” back into port, yet the residents of Daytona Beach were already discussing the deaths as being murderous.
“I will admit, what I saw shook me up a bit. I believe the police are handling the investigation, so it shouldn’t be long before whoever did this is caught.” Charlie heard himself say
the positive words, and only prayed that he wasn’t misjudging their abilities. Chief Morgan hadn’t seemed nearly as positive, based upon the initial evidence as told by the Coast Guard.
“Well, I’m just headed over to see Carol Maclean to arrange the funeral Mass. I trust you’ll make time to attend?”
“You can count on it.” Charlie would attend the funeral, if only to pay his respects to Captain Maclean’s widow.
“Fine. You did a good deed, son. God will see that you are properly rewarded one day.” Father Michael drained his coffee cup, declining a refill when Marsha, Bill’s long-time waitress, came over to offer him one. “No thanks, dear. I’ve had my fill.”
Father Michael waved “goodbye” to Bill and took his leave.
Marsha watched him leave, before turning back to Charlie, “The special is meatloaf, and Bill has apple pie tonight as well.”
Charlie nodded with a smile, “Both sound fine.”
“Do you want ice cream on your pie when I bring it out?”
Charlie shook his head, “Better not. In all of the day’s commotion, I didn’t eat lunch and my blood sugar can’t handle that tonight.” Charlie had a sweet tooth, which was a living hell for someone with his medical condition. If his urine test had been blue, he might have been willing to chance the ice cream tonight, but prudence won out. He did not want to spend the evening in the emergency room. They would call his parents, who would call his siblings, who would call everyone they knew… before morning most of Daytona Beach would know of his stupidity. No, he’d play it safe and forego the ice cream tonight.
Marsha smiled at him before heading back to the kitchen, calling out his order as she went.
Charlie shook his head thinking that if anyone ever came into the café and wanted to keep their order a secret, they should definitely request another waitress.
While he waited for his dinner to arrive, he picked up the daily paper, placing it where he could read it, but also observe the group of six individuals sitting at the far side of the café.
The women were still perched upon the knees of two of the men, laughing and giggling amongst themselves while the men carried on their own conversation. Being as the café was so empty, small snippets of their conversation carried across the room. They weren’t speaking in English; they were speaking in Spanish.
Charlie’s Spanish was very limited, but he pretended to read his newspaper, picking up a few words here and there. Inversiones. Investment. Cárcel. Jail. Lucha. Fight.
He listened a while longer, trying to piece together what they were discussing. It appeared that someone had been put in jail for fighting, and an investment was missing? He wished he knew more Spanish. He turned his attention to the daily news, only half-listening in on their conversation now until he heard mention of Flugencio Batista – Cuba’s corrupt President!
Chapter 9
Flugencio Batista, had in recent years, been a part-time resident of Daytona Beach, splitting his residency in the United States between New York City and Florida. He had returned to Cuba in 1952, using his military might to overtake the government, and allowing his considerable connections to organized crime a free rein in his country. The U.S. government had been party to his rise to power, justifying it because he maintained an outspoken stance against Communism.
Those facts aside though, Charlie had dealt in the past with members of the Cuban mob –Batistos, he called them, based mostly in Miami, but always looking for new territory to expand their profit margins. The rise in the drug trade coming in from Cuba had been the focus of more than one of his cases in the last several years; with both marijuana and cocaine beginning to find their way into the U.S. through various avenues.
Anything to do with Batista or organized crime was bad news. If these men were in Daytona Beach, something bad was definitely in the works!
Now all of his attention was dedicated to listening in. He examined the men with a new focus, noticing things about them that hadn’t been seen the first time around. Two of the men were facing away from him, so their faces were hidden from his view. That was not the case with the two sitting directly across from them.
The man with the woman on his lap was a thin man, with very closely cut dark hair, a small thin mustache, and dark brown eyes. He was dressed in a button down shirt, no tie, but like the other men at the table, was wearing a fedora hat with a large ribbon around the band.
The woman on his lap was dressed very scantily in a red satin sheath; her reddish-orange hair showed evidence of coming from a bottle with her darker roots starting to show through. The other woman was similarly dressed, and Charlie wondered if they were not prostitutes, rather than girlfriends.
The other man was much larger, and upon closer inspection, Charlie realized that while he was with men of obvious Cuban descent, he had the prominent nose, high forehead, and lighter skin more commonly associated with those of Italian or Sicilian descent. He also had a very prominent white scar that stretched from the corner of his right eye to the base of his ear.
Without having heard the name Batista mentioned, Charlie most likely would have missed those clues, but knowing that these men seemed to be somehow connected to Batista – it wasn’t much of a leap to connect them to the American mafia.
“Here you go, hon.” Marsha set a plate of food in front of Charlie, having replaced Bill’s mashed potatoes with salad greens and a side of green beans.
Seeing what she had done, Charlie thanked her, “Marsha, you’re always looking out for me.”
“Someone’s got to,” she told him before she sashayed back to the kitchen. Charlie watched her go, her hips swinging and silently wondered how long Bill was going to simply watch his waitress before he finally acted and asked her out. Bill was a widower of over twenty years, and Marsha had lost her husband in the war. The two were made for each other, but neither one of them seemed ready to pull the trigger.
Charlie dug into his meal, closing his eyes as the spicy meatloaf pleased his senses. Bill was an excellent cook, and more and more Charlie found himself eating his evening meal in the café. Somehow, cooking for himself these days seemed a bit depressing.
A motion from the other side of the café caught his attention, and he watched beneath lowered lids as the four men and two women paid their tab and left the café. He observed as they loitered on the street corner, the four men with the women, obviously not caring that people were staring at them.
Across the street lay the Skyline Hotel, a mecca for both racers and spectators alike. Being situated right on highway A1A, it was the perfect home base for everyone and anyone involved in the burgeoning racing industry.
The marquee outside the hotel caught his attention, announcing both stock car and bike races over the next few days. Was the mafia now turning their attention to the racing venue? Rumors had been circulating for the past few months that organized crime wanted in on the action, but the races weren’t like the casinos.
No, the stock car races were all about titles and bragging rights. Sure, there was always a small purse to be won, and side bets were just part of the culture.
Or was the mafia looking to use the large crowds that had begun to show up for the races as a way to traffic their drugs to a new “market”?
Before he could even begin to plow through those possibilities, his attention was caught by the sight of a mother and her two teenage children walking across the street. The Cuban men said something to her, but she kept her head up, looking straight ahead, and kept walking, as did her daughter.
Only her son seemed to be interested in what was being said, hesitating to exchange a few words with the thin mustached man before hurrying to catch up with his mother and sister, having been on the receiving end of her scowl.
Charlie noticed that the Cuban man, who had spoken to the young teenager, watched him with interest until he entered the restaurant. Something was up, but what?
He watched the group of men; curious when a dark vehicle pulled up to the curb
and several other men got out and joined them. The newcomers were dressed in pinstriped suits, very high fashion, and totally out of place for Daytona Beach. These men were definitely not from the local area.
The men exchanged conversation and Charlie’s curiosity was peaked when one of them opened the trunk and withdrew two suitcases, handing them to the mustached man, before helping the two women into the car. The other newcomers returned to the car and it drove off.
Charlie watched as the four men sauntered across the street and entered the hotel. What had just taken place? Why had those women gotten into the car? What was in the suitcases? Who were these men and why were they in Daytona Beach?
Chapter 10
Carmelita San Martin had just finished a double shift at the local hospital where she worked as a registered nurse. She was tired, her feet hurt, and she had several loads of laundry waiting for her at home. The last thing she had needed was for her son, Mateo, to pull one of his seemingly never-ending pranks today. He and three other boys had been caught behind the school gym with firecrackers, of all things.
Mateo had sworn on his papa’s grave that he had only been watching, and had no idea where the firecrackers had come from. Carmelita didn’t care. Her son had been raised to respect others property better than that and setting the trashcans behind the school on fire was the exact opposite of how she expected him to behave.
On top of that, one of the young men had also been found to be in possession of a small amount of marijuana. Carmelita had lectured her children many times on the evils of drugs and alcohol, but her son had evidently chosen to ignore her advice.
Her daughter Carmen was an angel compared to her brother. At the age of 14, only seventeen months younger than her brother, she was a beautiful girl and always did the right thing. She was a straight A student.
