He flicked on the V.H.F. marine radio. The Italian naval base on the northeast corner of Sicily routinely peppered any vessels on radar with the same speech; “This is the Italian Navy. Please identify your vessel.” That was 30 miles away, so the base north of Messina wasn’t his problem.
“Nope, asshole, you’re problem is 5,000 miles away in the Big Apple.” He chided himself and then went through the routine of repeating the word “stupid” until he’d said it enough to satisfy the need for self-flagellation.
His thoughts drifted to the British bartender who had a little pub in Pellaro. It was small, but it was clean, and now and then, Mike would slither in there for a beer. She was a smart one—never asked him any questions other than if he liked football.
“Sure, I grew up watching the Denver Broncos,” he lied.
“Not football. Real football,” Cassie smirked with an accent that he couldn’t identify other than it was from somewhere in England.
“Oh, you mean, soccer?”
“Oh, right, you Americans call it soccer. Pretty funny word really,” she snorted. “It sounds like Sock Her. Like that Leila that I went to finishing school with; I always wanted to sock her!”
“Wow,” said Mike. “You went to finishing school?”
“Surely, Yank. They train all of us upper-crust girls to open pubs in Italy.”
Every time the exchange was like that, short and meaningless. Usually, Cassie had some tale about her imaginary friend, Leila. He liked that about her. The woman could dish out fiction. She gave off the impression that when it came to true secrets, her mouth was a steel trap. Well, a trap behind sensual lips and perfect teeth. And the body—.
“Stop looking, asshole.” Mike adjured himself in a whisper and then ceased imagining the bartender’s curves. He put up a barrier around his head and his heart—there was no safe place for anyone in his life. One stupid night in the City and seeing the wrong thing ensured that.
The little diesel was working great. The rookie fisherman checked the bilge, and it was dry as a bone. “Hurray, Alonzo. You didn’t screw me, my toothless boatman!” Mike was screaming into the wind.
Once he was three miles out, he turned off the engine and floated. As was not unusual in the Med, the afternoon wind picked up a little as the breezes made their way up towards Messina. It was nice and warm—not a bad day to be alone without another boat in sight.
He’d gone out there to fish, but Mike couldn’t stifle his desire to swim. One thing he was damn good at besides hiding from people who wanted him dead—Casper could swim like a dolphin. He’d fantasized about doing marathon swims, maybe even the English channel. It would be impossible to risk that kind of notoriety now.
In the distance, Pellaro was a sandy-looking shoreline with a blue-collar town behind it. First things first, or rather safety first. He grabbed a couple of lines and tied bowline knots through inflated fenders. The other ends were wrapped around two cleats on the stern. Casper felt good about all the crap he’d learned from a fundamentals of boating book.
He heaved the two fenders off the back. The mild breeze pushed the cylindrical balloons away from the boat and caused the lines to stretch out. That gave him a way to pull himself back to the Sylvia. The important rule was to never swim out of the range of those ropes that extended from the back of the boat. Being that he didn’t want to die, Mike took those basics to heart and then dove into the water.
Half an hour was enough. He hauled the lines in and got down to the business of fishing. It was a real eye-opener. Within two hours, he pulled in a few small tunas and a couple of albacores. It was a complete shock. The value of this little batch would bring in enough to keep him from having to raid his stash for beer money. Casper vowed to zip his mouth shut. Maybe all those Italianos getting up at 3 a.m. were doing it right, but at 3 p.m., the competition was zilch. He counted the money in his head and headed back.
“What’ll you have?” asked Cassie, using her best imitation American accent as Casper approached the bar.
“Um. I would like some fish n’chips. The way you make it in the U.K.”
“An excellent choice. Mind you, that’s the same thing you order every time you come here, but still a fine dish.”
Mike shrugged, and then Cassie added, “You’ve been visiting here for six months and never did tell me your name.”
Without hesitating, he said, “It’s Bill.”
Cassie had built-in radar for bullshit. “Oh, right. Bill.” She leaned a little closer to him and raised one eyebrow. “Would that be Bill Clinton? or Bill Gates?” Her sarcasm came with a smirk.
“Just Bill.” He waited, but she stared him down as the fabric of her blouse grazed his arm. “No, really, do you think I would be here fishing for a living if my name was Gates?”
Her pleasant smile replaced the curious look. “Right, we’ll go with just plain Bill.” She turned to give the cook the order, and Mike exhaled but couldn’t resist checking her out from behind in the subdued lighting.
His dinner was perfect—it even came with ketchup. And the second beer also went down just right.
“Hey, Bill,” called Cassie as he was heading out.
Casper turned around and edged his way in her direction. “Did I short you?”
She smiled. “Nah. I was just thinking. I’m closing the place at 11. Why don’t you come around, and we’ll take a walk on the beach.”
Cassie caught him off guard. Mike stammered a few meaningless words but then organized his thoughts. “Maybe another time. I’m kind of tired.”
“That’s what you’re going with? Tired? Listen, I’m not homophobic or anything, but are you gay?”
“Gay? Um. Not right now.”
“So why not take a stroll by the water with someone who doesn’t end every word with a vowel? We are the only two Anglos in the whole, damn province maybe.”
He was so tempted. Casper’s brain and his libido fell into a deathmatch. More like a cage match. The image caused him to grin.
“Are you poking fun at me?” Cassie looked like she was the kind of girl who could go from demure to demonic in a second.
“Oh. Hell no. Just a funny thought popped into my head. Can I take a raincheck on the walk? It’s nothing to do with you. You’re awesome. I just have some stuff to take care of—but I really want to.”
She squinted at him. “Promise me you aren’t some kind of nutcase, and we’ll do it tomorrow night after work? You know that I have got literally dozens of fisherman pestering me for a date, so don’t think you’re all that special.”
Something about the way Cassie said that. She was getting to him darn fast. There was a lot to this bartender, Mike thought.
“Absolutely. I don’t want you to have to compromise and settle. Shall we say after you close up? I won’t bail on you.”
He looked at her half-hoping she would tell him to forget it—that would have been better for both of them.
“Sure thing—Bill. I’ll be outside at three minutes to ten.” She gave him a little tap on his arm and a wink. Casper wasn’t sure what to do, but she quickly spun around and marched off down the street without another word. Two things were definite. Cassie was a hottie, and he’d possibly just committed the worst violation of his “Stay safe” protocol. But, his common sense lost the battle against his sex drive. He took a few extra seconds to watch her walk away.
Chapter 2
St. Nicholas and 179th was not the best place to hang out after dark. It was also the least likely place to find the home of a major drug kingpin, and yet, there it was, and there she was. No one would believe that the most successful and dangerous drug pusher in the five boroughs was a lady who ran a shoe store. The fascinating part of the story was that Rosalita Mendoza liked selling shoes. She also liked her block, the place she’d grown up. The memories, both good and bad, were part of the woman’s soul.
Her real name wasn’t even Mendoza, but she warmed to the sound of it, and even though she was only half Puerto-Ri
can, she had the Hispanic appearance that came from her dad. He was a story all to himself. Roberto Almos worked his ass off to make sure his only child got ahead in the world. For him, it started with a barbershop on St. Nick. Rosa used to sit there on one of the unoccupied chairs while her papa gave haircuts to local people and college students from a nearby school. His trademark maneuver was to blow the hair off of his customer’s necks. The man never used a brush; he would release little puffs of air to scatter the little hairs. That often made the customers cringe a little, but her dad marched to his own drummer. And, the patrons almost always came back.
When Roberto had saved enough money, he rented a little place just two doors down and set up his girlfriend, Julia, to run a shoe store. It was a damn good idea, and a modest amount of cash flowed in.
“Hey, Rosalita, what are you doing sitting there after school every day?” Julia used the same line repeatedly when the girl would park herself in the shoe store and solve math problems. And she was very, very good at math.
One day, the ten-year-old was at the barbershop. She alternated daily to make Julia feel like a mom and periodically count the register’s money. The girl mentally tallied the inventory and the money like a wizard, never writing anything down but memorizing all of it. One thing about her stepmom; she was honest to the penny; not one damn pair of shoes or a smidgen of money was ever unaccounted for—Roberto knew how to pick a winner.
That day Rosa heard yelling. The noise was much louder than the usual pedestrian traffic.
“Gimme the money, bitch!” the robber was screaming at the top of his lungs. She bounded up from her chair. So did Roberto. The yelling continued. It was obvious that Julia was being robbed in broad daylight.
“All the money now!” There was a pause. “What are you hiding back there? Give it to me!”
Bystanders were scattering, but she and her dad raced out into the street. He turned and told her to get back inside, but Rosalita shook her head and stood her ground.
The yelling from the store continued, then there was a loud crack that everyone in Washington Heights could recognize as a pistol shot. The criminal backed out of the store. He was a skinny black man in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt. The guy had a wad of bills in his left hand and a small-caliber pistol in the other. As he backed up, Julia staggered out and collapsed onto the sidewalk.
“You see what you got, bitch?”
The perp turned and looked northward on St. Nick. Roberto was standing there, unarmed and tense.
“What are you looking at, muchacho!”
Her father could see Julia stretched out on the sidewalk. He moved towards the punk.
“You want some, too, old man?” The guy lifted the small pistol and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Her dad slammed into the robber, and they crashed to the ground in front of Julia.
Rosalita could see her father’s girlfriend shaking and gasping for breath as the two men struggled. The bad guy got up and began to hit Roberto on his skull with the pistol. Blood dripped down her papa’s face as he tried to stand but could not.
“Get off of my dad!” Rosalita shrieked at the skinny bastard who’d just done so much violence. She was in shock but stared the man down.
“Now you? Fuck off, little bitch!”
Sirens wailed from down the avenue. Two squad cars were making their way up the street. He decided to run north, right at the girl.
For some reason, Rosa had grabbed a pair of sharp, pointed scissors on her way out of the barbershop. She gripped them in her right hand slightly behind the cotton dress that she’d worn to school most days. He was on a collision course directly at her. She didn’t move, and she knew that he was going to run right over her.
Rosa exhaled, gripped the scissors with all her strength as the robber steamrolled her. She blacked out when her head hit the concrete, not knowing that her desperate thrust of the scissors planted them into his chest.
*
John Bruner was a great cop. He took maybe one sick day a year, and when on duty, he was smart and dedicated. The man was trim, fit, and with the added charisma, he was noticed. That led to becoming a sergeant and the fast track up the ladder. His best feature to his superiors was his knack for graciously accepting any assignment, no matter how crappy it was. That landed him in some rundown and dangerous neighborhoods.
That also led to some big and notable arrests. The detective started making the headlines because of who he was putting in jail. John was making a lot of friends—and a lot of enemies.
“Hey. Mr. Deputy Chief of Police, do you have any comments about the reports that a flood of heroin is out in the street?” the New York Bulletin reporter started with a standard question.
“What’s your name?” asked Bruner. John damn well knew the man’s name, but the guy pissed him off routinely.
“It’s Scarlett. I’m with the Bulletin.”
“Scarlett, like Scarlett O’Hara, the movie character?” John began to needle the guy.
“Yes. She was my grandmother. So what’s the story with the huge heroin shipment that got through? Did someone in your department drop the ball?”
There it was. That insidious attempt to paint the police as incompetent. It was S.O.P. for all of Gotham City’s reporters. Someone had to be blamed. A tiny bit of Bruner’s burning anger showed on his face. “No one dropped the ball. We’re working on tracking it. And rumors aren’t facts. You can print that. It could be that the tale about a large load is a bunch of hogwash. Next.” He pointed to a different newsman.
“There’s another rumor that the drug gangs in this city are being consolidated under one boss. We all know that in the past six months, three top druglords have vanished. Is there a new boss in town? And why doesn’t your department know who it is and who’s running the drug trade now?”
Now the deputy’s fuse was lit. Hey, he thought, they’re just doing their job. “Look and listen. We have no evidence that all of the drug dealing is coming under the control of one mysterious and mythical guy. Drugs come from all over. Try to report the facts and not a bunch of sensational lies and fiction. Next.”
From the back of the small group of journalists, a voice boomed over the competitors. It was Glenda Jones, a transwoman news reporter who was more down in the trenches than the rest of the T.V. and print reporters combined. Bruner despised getting questions from Jones—the inquiries were always on target or pointing in the right direction.
“Sir. I got sources telling me that there is one boss now or that in another month or two, there will be. And they are saying that it’s a woman.” Eyebrows were raised all around. Jones added, “Well, at least someone who identifies as a woman.”
The look from all the news media was penetrating. John stared right back at them. “Total crap. And you can quote me on that.” The second-in-command at the NYPD waved at them and spun around to return to headquarters. He took advantage of his position to bolt. And the deputy chief had the power to do so because it was really his department now. Bruner had become the de-facto boss of N.Y.C.’s finest. Cartelli was just about done as police commissioner. The man couldn’t put a cogent sentence together. It was just a matter of time before the press would report that there was a new chief. That’s when the real fun would begin.
He went up to his office and waved off his secretary as she tried to shuffle over and give him a stack of paperwork to sign.
“Not now.” She backed off.
The chair in the office was perfect for a middle-aged man who had the usual aches from 25 years of being a cop. That was beside the bullet stuck next to his hip that they told him to leave in there. And the knife wounds.
“What kind of moron would pick this as a job?” he grumbled to himself.
A cellphone rang. It was his other phone.
“Yes?”
“Hi, John.”
“Hi yourself. What’s the problem?”
There was a gentle and audible breath on the line. He waited. A call like this was fairly rare,
and he did his best to roll with it and just keep the subway car on the tracks.
“I saw your little press conference live on T.V. It was—interesting—especially the part about the female boss running a large enterprise. That was particularly noteworthy. Don’t you think?”
“It doesn’t mean a thing,” he said defensively.
“I hope so. You did answer the Glenda girl’s question fairly well. It gets a 9 out of 10.”
“Really? What would earn a 10?” He was curious where the woman on the phone was taking this.
“A 10 would be no Glenda asking questions. Maybe our friend Ms. Jones can go work in Detroit or somewhere else. I can think of several places where she could become a part of the landscape.”
“What can I do? Reporters ask questions, I answer them. A crackpot like Jones seems to have a talent for coming up with good stories.” He waited for what came next.
“Oh, well,” the voice sighed. “Perhaps I can suggest a better job for the adventurous Glenda? Maybe she could be a spokesperson for your department?”
Bruner smirked. The phone was getting a little slick due to perspiration from his ear. The woman on the other line had a talent for eliciting that involuntary response from him.
“Um. I don’t think we have any job openings like that.”
“Very well. With any luck, Jones will find a suitable spot. I would like to add that I think you’re managing the department excellently. Keep up the good work. If you’re looking for some relaxing melodies to take the press off your mind, I suggest listening to the Ipanima song—I believe I will play that when I get home from work. You should too, maybe.”
The line went dead. Geesh. He thought about her last comment and withdrew a little notebook from his shirt pocket. It was a gift from the caller from over four years earlier. It had 50 pages, but only one page had notes. He looked up the music. No. It was the singer, Hilbert or something. There it was, the fourth line down—it listed a coded address and time of where he was instructed to go.
Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1) Page 2
