by Andrew Allan
I still believed I was one of them.
The sign pointed to the turnpike and I took it. Ocala bound.
33
THE ROLLS CRUISED past miles of horse farms with grassy pastures, which soon became a sprawl of motels from a long gone, golden travel era. They were perched along the hilly drag, in between newer buildings with flashier businesses.
The sign for Greco’s Automotive rotated above the rooflines. That was the place. But, was it safe?
The longer the Rolls wasn’t discovered, the longer I would remain a free man. I parked it in an alley behind a janitorial supply company. No place to put it if you didn’t want it stolen. I left it unlocked with the keys on the seat. Maybe an enterprising thief could help me lose it.
I’d brought my car to Greco’s once before. DG’s recommendation. Couldn’t recall the reason. But, I did recall there was an entrance off the main drag. I opted for that over the front entrance.
I passed a stack of cars in a weed-filled field. Hard to tell if they were waiting to be used or never to be touched.
The first person I saw was Greco himself, a gangly man of about sixty. He had a face grooved with history and a broom mustache like Colonel Blimp.
Greco gave me a funny look.
“Help you?” he said.
“Looking for DG’s boys.”
He sized me up, didn’t seem to know what to make of me.
He pointed to a garage bay. “Over there. The Ford.”
“Thanks.”
I found two biker types working on a Ford Explorer. The sleeves of their navy jumpsuits were rolled up, each had a thumb knuckle Plague tat. One guy, short and stocky, was standing next to a bright red tool chest. The other man was bent over the engine.
“Man, this is why Fords stand for Found on the Roadside Dead,” said the guy under the hood.
Shorty saw me and stopped laughing. He squinted for a better glimpse.
“Yeah?” All attitude.
“You’re DG’s guys, right?” I didn’t recognize either.
“Probably not.”
The other man pulled his head out from under the hood. His most distinguishing feature was a soul patch on his chin and mustache with dark, pointed tips, like they’d been dipped in motor oil.
“I’m DG’s friend from up on the river.” I hoped the specific detail of the river would prove I was legit.
“So?”
“I need to get in touch with him,” I said.
“Call him.”
“Or visit him. If you live right by him,” said Stubby.
“Not that easy. I’m in trouble. And, I have a feeling he isn’t at that house,” I said.
“What kind of trouble?” said Mustache, walking from the deep shadows of the garage towards the back of the car, next to Stubby.
“The kind you can profit from. If you help me out,” I said.
They exchanged a look, each wanting confirmation from the other before proceeding. Hustlers hustling.
Stubby leaned against the trunk of the car. “Go on,” he said.
“People are trying to kill me,” I said.
Mustache shrugged.
“Don’t worry. I’m the good guy. I need to see DG because he has my wife in hiding. I just want to see her before I die. If I don’t make it, that is.” Every word was true. I spoke from the heart and hoped that vibed genuine.
Stubby scratched his head. “How’s that make us dollars and dimes?”
Too bad I’d lost the backpack at Wint’s house. Could have let cash do the talking.
“I have money in the bank. Once I get this mess cleared up, I will happily pay you. Five thousand dollars, just to let me know where I can find my wife. Where DG has her.”
They exchanged a curious glance. Cuckold sucker?
“They’re not doing anything together,” I said.
“How you know? DG’s bit of a ladies man. You’d know that if you knowed him at all,” said Mustache. He twirled one end of his mustache between a grease-black finger and thumb.
“I’ve known him for years. I was there when his house blew up.”
They’d heard about that. Easy to see on their faces.
Stubby stepped up to get a look at me. “Are you that guy—,”
“Yes.”
He looked worried. I liked it.
“Five thousand dollars?” he said.
“For each of you. I just need to see my wife.”
“Must be some kind of woman.”
“Certainly is,” I said. My mind flashed back to a montage of Ilsa’s greatest hits. Her smile. Her body. Water dripping off said body as she stepped out of the Rainbow River. “She’s worth every cent.”
Mustache straightened. “Say, she the lady whose bars we watched, over in Gainesville?”
“That’s the one.” We were getting somewhere.
Stubby glanced at the Ford then across the grounds of the auto shop. He checked his watch. “You got a deal. But, hang loose a few. We gotta make a some calls and finish fixing this hunk a junk and get a lunch break around noon.”
“Sure thing. Mind if I just grab a seat here?” I said.
“Sure. But, there’s A/C up in the waiting room.”
“This is fine.”
I sat on the ground just outside the garage bay. Mustache went back to tinkering on the Ford. Stubby tossed his shop rag and said he was going up to the office, make those calls.
The music cut out on the radio and transitioned into commercials and then a weather report.
“Weather is getting squirrelly here at the studio. High winds and rain are rolling in from Hurricane Trent.”
A glance up confirmed it. The sky was overcast.
“Spaghetti plots are inconclusive, so meteorologists don’t know exactly where the eye is headed. But, you can bet wherever it goes, we’re going to get slammed pretty hard. We’ll be back in thirty to give you another update. Right now, here’s Florida’s finest…The Allman Brothers.”
‘Trouble No More’ played. One of my favorites. Hearing the Allmans always conjured thoughts of North Florida, eating seafood, drinking beer, getting mellow. Old life. I couldn’t dwell on the memory too long. Sweet nostalgia was bound to melt into bitter regret.
About that hurricane, I liked the prospect. It was always an exciting event, as long as you weren’t worried about it damaging your home or flinging you against a tree. Even that seemed like a better way to die compared to what the Kith might do if they caught me.
It was a lucky break for me because whenever a hurricane hits Florida, it causes complete chaos. Everyone tunes into the weather reports until their power gets knocked out. Everyone runs for cover. Everyone is only worried about themselves. There would be fewer cars on the road, less chance of being spotted by civilians. Less chance someone would recognize me. And, the authorities would be busy helping cities and civilians prepare for the storm. I couldn’t ask for a better scenario while trying to stop the Kith. Go ahead and make it a Cat 5. That’ll really distract them.
The glass door of the front office reflected sun into my eyes. Stubby walked towards me. I hoped he had good news.
A car jostled up the incline and onto the property. Nothing fancy. It drove past Stubby, almost clipping him. The car stopped with a screech. Two men jumped out and aimed guns at me.
“Don’t move!”
He was Hispanic, well-groomed, and wearing a Marion County Sheriff’s Office windbreaker with a badge hung around his neck.
The car’s driver, also wearing a MCSO windbreaker, stepped around the open door and put his gun right in my face. My hands went up. He pushed me to the ground.
This was very bad.
“Walt Asher, you’re under arrest for the murder of—,”
Gunshot echoed inside the repair bay.
A heavy weight fell onto me.
Mustache said, “Damn!”
Flash frames—Stubby running to the garage. The cop swinging his gun out of frame. Everyone looking towards the back lot.
Bam!
Bam!
The second shot was followed by a gasp. The officer near me fell to the ground. His throat was red and shredded.
Someone shot a cop.
Who would shoot a cop?
Why would—
Kith.
Trouble: Cops and Kith?
Quick math: Kith shoots cops. Prevent my arrest. Kill me before I talk. Same reason they tried to kill me in Thomasville.
Stubby crawled into the repair bay and took cover. He looked around trying to find the shooter. He pulled a bitch of a gun from inside his jumpsuit. A glance back into the bay revealed Mustache with his jumpsuit off and his Plague cut on full display. He was holding a shotgun. These guys never went anywhere unarmed.
The shooter appeared. He had come in from the back lot.
This was crazy. Had both the cops and the Kith been watching the shop? That meant I couldn’t go anywhere related to DG. Every known associate was a hot zone.
Mustache fired. Eardrums caved.
Greco burst out of the office waving his arms. He took a bullet to the face, which splattered his brains against the tinted glass of the front office.
The killer swung his gun our way.
Stubby and Mustache stepped up and fired.
That bought me cover. I ran into the garage.
Stubby’s gun clicked dry. He reached for a new magazine. Mustache fired. Went to reload. Stubby fired.
Bam!
Mustache’s waist ripped open.
Stubby saw his buddy dead, fumed, and accelerated his assault. He zeroed in on the shooter, drove him to cover, and waited for the opportunity to kill him off.
I checked around for my own weapon.
“I see him,” said Stubby. “Behind them barrels. He’s trapped. But, I need cover to get closer.”
“What do you want me to do?” I said.
“Get in the car, back it out.”
“He’ll shoot me.”
“Do it fast. I’ll run behind. Then you peel away, and I’ll be ready for him. He’ll think we drove off in the car.”
I stood, dropped the hood of the car, and climbed in the driver’s seat.
Bullets pinged garage wall. Shit flew off shelves.
Keys were in the ignition. Turn, step, growl. Based on the sound of the engine, they weren’t just maintaining this simple car. They had been enhancing it.
“You ready?” I said.
Stubby was crouched just outside my window.
He nodded. “Do it.”
I shifted into reverse, checked the mirrors, and considered the best way to do this. I needed to accelerate, keep the wheel steady, all while staying low. Anything behind me? No. But, I only had about twenty feet between the garage entrance and a brick wall.
Bullets ricocheted inside the garage. Slugs cracked my windshield.
“Go!”
I hit the gas. The car thunked and bobbled off the lift plates. Nope. It had rolled over Mustache dead on the ground.
I ducked below the window line. I had a bad angle on the side mirror. Hard to tell how close the bricks were to the bumper.
Gunshots from my side of the car. Stubby shot at the shooter.
The shooter fired back.
The passenger side windows shattered. Hot glass flew into my mouth and ear.
The car slammed to a stop. It hit the brick building.
Shit.
A bullet blasted away the rearview mirror. Headrest fabric and stuffing exploded into the air. Bullets smashed into the doors and ripped into the seat.
I spun the wheel, yanked the gearshift, stomped the gas pedal.
Neutral. No!
More bullets blasted the car.
I shoved the gearshift into drive. “I’m going,” I said. Hoping in that split-second Stubby would run for cover.
The car lurched forward. Tires screeched.
I peeked to see where I was going. Look left. My car clipped the cop car. There’s Stubby shooting. No cover. Two hands on the gun. No backing down. He was loving this.
Lookout!
I hooked the wheel to avoid smashing into the front office. Then, I had to brake hard to keep the car from careening into the back of a tow truck.
That left me right in the bullseye.
Bullets shattered tow truck glass.
Stubby stalked forward, ventilating a pile of pallets stacked near the back of the lot. He had the shooter trapped. Stubby hurried closer like a dog tracking a fresh-shot duck.
Stubby re-loaded quickly.
His target hopped up and ran for new cover. Too slow. Stubby snapped in the new magazine and let it rip.
The shooter dropped.
Stubby hustled over, his gun sighted on the target the entire time. He reached the shooter and gave him a kick. No response.
Stubby holstered the gun inside his jumpsuit as I arrived.
The man on the ground reminded me of the Earl Tarvis. A white redneck with Nazi tattoos, eagles and shields and shit. They had to be connected.
Central Florida had plenty of hate groups. Wasn’t that long ago that a county Sheriff was identified as a high-ranking member of the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan. He could be local.
I couldn’t believe they were brazen enough to shoot police officers. That’s a bad jacket to wear. But, the Kith could always clean that up, couldn’t they? They had the Governor on their side.
“Fuck this guy.” Stubby turned to me. “Take the car. Get out of here. It’s now five for this guy and five for the car. Fifteen large,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. I was in no position to argue.
“I found out your old lady is staying at DG’s place in Palatka.”
Palatka wasn’t far. Maybe an hour and a half northeast from here.
“How will I know the place?”
“It’s on the island in the St. Johns. Just south of the bridge. All I was told.”
He meant the St. Johns River. It ran right past Palatka. I knew the bridge.
“What about him?” I pointed to the body on the ground.
Stubby shrugged casual. “A rare opportunity. I’m gonna file a police report.” He gave me a wry smile.
“I wasn’t here.”
He waved it off.
“Don’t sweat it. I’ll just tell them he was coming for the boss. He pisses a lot of people off. Including me.”
What if the dead cops who had been staking this place out reported my arrival before they stormed in? I needed to go.
“Thank you,” I said and held out my hand.
“Don’t die before you pay me.”
We shook and I hurried back to the car. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him kick the dead guy again.
34
IT HAD BEEN a ridiculous twenty-four hours.
Stokely must have heard about the auto shop shoot out by now. But, I needed to make sure he had the context. And, I needed an update from him.
In my haste to leave town, I unconsciously took Highway 40 east through the Ocala national forest. Not a brilliant move since I was a fugitive and it was a two-lane highway for dozens of miles. If they closed off the road, I was screwed. But, the forest did afford plenty of ways to get lost.
But there was no roadblock. I had a clear shot to a small nothing town called Astor. It had a Quick Mart with a pay phone. That was about it.
“This is Stokely.”
“It’s me, Walt.”
“Were you in Ocala?”
“News travels fast.”
“The police on the scene called it in when they saw you.”
“So, why you asking if I was there?”
“Just making sure.”
“Well, I hate to say it, but the Kith killed your colleagues.”
“Not you?”
“No, not me.”
“Dead cops seem to follow you around,” he said.
“A trend I’d be happy to end. The Kith shot them, and they almost shot me. Connect the bullets and guns. You’ll see.”
/> “And, Orlando?”
“I may have had a hand in that.”
He said, “You’re leaving a miserable trail.”
“I’m getting somewhere on this. There’s a guy, Wint Wilson. Big developer in Orlando.”
“Same guy whose plaza burned down?”
“Yes. He’s not just a developer, he’s the Kith’s official property developer.”
“How do you know?”
“I overheard their planning meeting. And, I was at his office.”
Stokely’s silence could only mean ‘continue’. So, I did.
“They’re planning something. A new property, like a Kith headquarters. That’s why they need Hoyt to be Governor.”
“You don’t need the Governor for—“
“The Governor can declare a state of emergency. They’re waiting to see where Hurricane Trent hits. If it’s someplace to their liking, they’re gonna have the governor seize the land under the s.o.e. They’re gonna take it, they’re not going to pay for it, and it will be their private playground off limits to the public.”
“That’s crazy,” he said.
“You’re fucking right. But, that’s what they’re doing.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do with that? And, what does that have to do with a shootout at an auto shop and plazas getting torched? That’s a lot of mess for one ridiculous plan. You’re just making things worse.”
Anger in his voice, impatience in his tone.
“Bullshit. I’m doing what no one else will. Trying to find the truth. Because no one’s gonna get burned as bad as me if I don’t find it. I’m getting closer.”
“How?”
A pair of shiftless men laughed about something at the far corner of the gas station convenience store.
“Look. I torched the plaza to get Wilson’s attention. I took him to his office. And, I saw blueprints for what they’re trying to build. That’s proof.”
“Maybe. Do you have the blueprints?”
“I snapped pictures of them and sent it to my wife’s phone. Now, I have to track her down to make sure she doesn’t erase it so I can send it to you. It’s real proof.”
“Of what? Architectural ambitions?”
“You see many resort plans with a crematorium?”
Silence.
“You pair this with the other killings, the ranch, put it all together and there’s a very clear pattern emerging. This is the first tangible piece we have of anything. And, I almost died twice to get it!”
