JL04 - Mortal Sin (36 page)

That made Carlos de La Torre fidget in his chair.

“What would the effects of a spill be?”

“Devastating to both plants and animals. The birds and the reptiles are dependent on a fragile ecosystem. The beaches, the slough, the estuaries, would be a killing ground. Millions of animals would die. The wood stork and the Florida panther would likely be rendered extinct.”

“And the effect to the farmers?”

“If polluted water is released to the fields, well, obviously, oil and sugarcane don’t mix.”

“And if it isn’t released?”

“Death by drought or death by oil, take your choice.”

Harrison Baker was no fan of the growers, and there seemed to be a perverse delight in his voice. I took a quick look at Carlos de La Torre. He had turned a dark crimson and was angrily poking an index finger at Nicky Florio, who was shaking his head.

From the bleachers, I heard a buzzing. The Everglades Society folks were nodding and speaking excitedly to each other. I’d convinced
them
, but that was preaching to the converted. What about the board? They knew oil was deadly, but there was still a missing link in the evidence. I still hadn’t proved Nicky could drill for it.

The adrenaline flow seemed to have kicked in for the somnolent reporters and photographers. They knew something was coming but didn’t know what. Neither did I. A still photographer was kneeling at my feet, clicking pictures. A radio interviewer stuck the microphone of a portable recorder under Harrison Baker’s nose. Two reporters were trying to get Florio’s attention, but he ignored them. He looked ready to kill someone, and I had a pretty solid idea of the number one candidate.

Thornton banged his gavel to quiet the audience. Finally, the clerk found the contract and handed it to me along with the resolution before the board. I let Baker head back to the bleachers and reviewed the contract I had seen once before in Henry Osceola’s office. But then I’d been looking for something entirely different. Now I turned to the paragraph entitled “Grant of Rights.”

“Mr. Chairman, under this lease, not only has the Micanopy tribe granted Florio Enterprises the right to build commercial property, it also granted “all earth and mineral rights of whatever kind, without any limitation whatsoever, and for no additional compensation to the lessor, for a period of years coextensive with the term of this lease.”

I let that sink in for a moment and caught sight of Guillermo Diaz staring at me, drawing a line with his index finger across his throat. I added, “This clause allows the extraction of all oil and gas from the leased land, and if there were gold, diamonds, and uranium, that, too. It doesn’t cost Florio a dime. The tribe doesn’t get a cent. The state of Florida and the feds don’t get a cent, but Florio gets the oil, at least he gets every drop that he doesn’t spill. The rest of us will get that.”

The audience was humming now. Again, Thornton pounded his gavel. I looked up into the darkened balcony. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I saw a shadow move. Was it a shadow or the barrel of a rifle propped on the metal railing in the front row? I walked right, and the shadow followed. I walked left, same thing. So I did the only sane thing. I moved in front of Florio’s table and crouched down on my haunches, putting him in the line of fire.

“Now let’s look at the resolution you’re about to vote on,” I said, thumbing through the copy, Thornton watching me curiously. “It calls for approval of the ninety-nine-year lease ‘in every respect.’ Just as the government can’t prohibit the Micanopy tribe from running gambling on its land, it can’t prohibit drilling for oil. The tribe seeks to assign that right, but it gave up its sovereignty to this board, at least where environmental matters are concerned. If it hadn’t, there’d be oil rigs in the Big Cypress right now. In other words, Mr. Chairman, what you’re voting on is whether Florio Enterprises can drill for oil in the Everglades.”

Clyde Thornton was staring at his copy of the resolution, eyes wide. The buzz of the crowd turned into a dull roar.

“If I’m wrong about that,” I said, “let Mr. Florio tell you.”

With that, I peeked up over the table and dropped the lease in front of Nicky Florio. Then I reached into my suit pocket, pulled out a snapshot, and slid it in front of him. “Here, Nicky,” I said. “I’ve marked the clause. Why not give us your interpretation?”

Florio didn’t care about the lease. His attention was focused on a Polaroid photo of his favorite lawyer in a pair of borrowed pajamas.

“What about it, Nicky? I’ve looked this baby up and down, inside and out. I’ll bet you have, too.”

A rumble started in Florio’s throat.

“I’ve given her my best shot,” I continued, “and my input has been well received.”

He continued staring at the photo. He turned it over in his hand, his face reddening, and tore the photo in two. I le stood up, wagging a finger at me. “You bastard! You prick! You sneaky, bird-dogging son of a bitch, I’m gonna kill you!” He jumped to his feet.

“Mr. Florio!” Thornton didn’t approve, but the TV guys were delighted. Florio swatted away one camera lens that was about six inches from his nose.

“No!” It was a thunderous exclamation, and Carlos de La Torre was on his feet, a perfectly furious look on his face. “National Sugar must reconsider its position in view of this development. We could not tolerate the risk to the wildlife in the Everglades, and our obligation to our shareholders requires our eternal vigilance to protect our investment in the cane fields. So, we must withdraw our support and urge the board to turn down the application.”

He looked at Nicky Florio with disgust, but Florio only had eyes for me. His cheeks were flushed, and a vein throbbed in his forehead. His hands were clenched into fists. He turned to the balcony. “Now!” he screamed. “Now!”

I moved even closer to Nicky. He didn’t know whether to strangle me or back away. Instead, he stood frozen in his tracks, then shot a look at the balcony.

Thornton whispered something to the commissioner on one side, then to the commissioner on the other. “If that’s all, it would seem to be an appropriate time for our vote.” They called the roll, and the board voted unanimously to reject approval of the Florio lease.

No town.

No casino.

No oil.

The clamor of applause. People stormed from the audience. A din of voices. Bedlam. That’s when I turned to find Abe Socolow. He was surrounded by two cameras and three reporters.

I never heard the rifle shot.

The wooden floor splintered at my feet.

I dived under the display table, just as a second shot shattered the model of the casino. A third bullet
ka-pinged
off the metal supports of the table.

Screams from the audience. Bodies pushed into each other. Chairs overturned. Thornton was yelling for calm, but the microphone screeched with feedback.

“Kill the bastard!” Nicky was screaming somewhere in the mob.

I rolled out from under the table and scurried toward the side entrance, trying to blend in with the panicking crowd. I tucked my head down, bent at the knees to appear shorter, and smacked right into Abe Socolow, who grabbed me. “This way,” he screamed in my ear. I didn’t know if he was rescuing me or arresting me, but I followed him toward the exit until I paused to let a couple of Everglades Society members get out of the bleachers and into the crowd pushing toward the door.

A moment later, all I could see of Socolow was the bald spot at the crown of his head. Then I felt a jab in my ribs and heard a weasel voice. “You and me,
muchacho
, we’re going for a little walk.”

G
UILLERMO DIAZ HUSTLED ME OUT A SIDE DOOR
. He pushed me into the sunlight of the parking lot, the barrel of a .38 banging against my spine. We danced that way across the asphalt, Diaz steering me toward Nicky Florio’s midnight-blue Bentley. People streamed by us, running. I tried to catch sight of Socolow but couldn’t. Florio was already sitting behind the wheel by the time Diaz shoved me into the backseat, then climbed in after me. Florio started the engine, gunned it, and we fishtailed around a corner, burning rubber as we left the parking lot.

“You fucked me good, Jake.” Florio looked straight ahead, an open palm pounding the top of the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, I saw him glowering at me. “I gotta hand it to you, Jake. First you fucked my wife, and then you fucked me. I should have killed you along with Gondolier. You knowhow long I’ve been planning this? I started making nice with the Indians fifteen years ago. Fifteen years! It was my dream. I start by building stucco houses for them at cost, all the time planning for the future. It was all set up. First the bingo. We made money for them and for us, but that was chicken feed compared to what I had planned. A casino, and then the oil. Nobody could stop me.”

We were doing seventy on a two-lane road. He shot a look toward the southeast and the Big Cypress Swamp. “Then you come along, Jake. A half-assed ex-jock without a clue. Did you have a plan? Fuck no. All you cared about was screwing my wife and fucking me over. I cut you a break. I hired you on the Tupton case, you ungrateful piece of shit. Even after you screwed my wife, I let you live. But you gotta go fucking around with the Indians and the geologists. You stupid fuck, I would have dealt with you. You didn’t have to go public.”

“It was the only way to stop you,” I said softly from the backseat.

“Once you knew about the oil, you could have come to me. I would have cut you in.”

“I didn’t want a piece of your action. I wanted you.”

“Fine. You got me, pal. You got me good. Fifteen years of work down the drain. A lifetime of plans. Now what the fuck am I going to do with you?”

“Turn me over to Socolow,” I said.

“Maybe I’ll do that,” he said. In the rearview mirror, I saw him smile, or at least bare his teeth. “In pieces.”

“After what I’ve been through, you think you can scare me, Nicky?”

“Who gives a shit about scaring you when I can kill you?”

He swung the Bentley onto a gravel road. Diaz kept the gun leveled at me. The muddy bank of a canal rose above us on our left. Stalks of sugarcane towered over the car on our right. I had the claustrophobic sense of being in a tunnel. The sky was filled with black smoke, portions of the cane fields being scorched prior to harvesting. The fire burns off the undergrowth and much of the unwanted leaves, leaving the hard-husked cane intact. The air smelled sweet, like summer corn on the grill.

“Your face is going to be on the evening news,” I said. I imitated his voice. “‘You sneaky bird-dogging son of a bitch, I’m gonna kill you.’ How would it look if I turn up dead?”

“Maybe you won’t turn up at all. Maybe you get buried under twenty tons of dirt.” He looked toward the bank of the canal. “Hey, Guillermo, we got any shovels in the trunk?”

“No, boss, just a tire jack.”

“Shit!”

Florio was quiet a moment as the car crunched along on the gravel road. He seemed to be thinking of what to do with me. Killing was easy. Disposing of the body was hard.

“We got a camera back there?” Florio asked.

“Don’t think so, boss.”

“Shit! Jake here likes to take pictures, don’t you, lover boy? Wouldn’t mind taking one home to Gina, maybe Jake’s dick stuffed in his mouth like a cigar.”

“Or a salami,” I said.

“You think this is funny, asshole? I’m gonna watch you die.”

“Nicky, think it over. It’s too late. You can’t kill me now. I was seen leaving the gym with your hired hand here. You just threatened me on videotape. Abe Socolow’s figured out you’re a scumbag and would love to bust you. Face it, Nicky. The game’s over. Why make it tougher on yourself?”

“Because I owe you, big time, and because I can’t have you testifying about Rick Gondolier. Face it, I can’t afford to let you live, even if I wanted to, and guess what, pal, I don’t want to…”

I heard it then, the roar of the engine. At first, I thought it was a piece of equipment in the cane field, a harvester maybe.

“…So what are your odds, Lassiter, six-to-five against?”

Then I saw it, above us, dipping down for a closer look. The helicopter with Hank Scourby at the controls. Florio saw it, too, and instinctively hit the brakes. “What the hell!”

“Even money,” I said.

The copter hovered in front of us, dropping to just a few feet above our roof.

“This guy a friend of yours, Lassiter?” Florio yelled, jamming the accelerator to the floor. We bounced through puddles and potholes, my head hitting the ceiling. The copter hung there in front of us.

Over the noise of the copter and the racing car engine, I barely heard it. Not as much pop as a firecracker, the first gunshot missed. The second one pinged off the hood, and Florio nearly lost control, swerving toward the canal bank, then across the road toward the cane field, before straightening the wheel. I looked up, and there was Hank Scourby, door open, leaning out with his .44 Magnum, blasting away.

The next shot missed, then another ricocheted off the trunk. Finally, one squarely hit the front windshield, splintering it into a spider’s web of fissures. Again, the Bentley swerved, but Florio kept driving, and the copter stayed with us.

Diaz lowered his window, stuck the .38 out, and fired two rounds toward the copter. He didn’t appear to hit anything. He took a look at me, poked the gun out the window again, and I turned toward him. In a flash, the gun was in my face, the barrel pushing at my cheekbone.

“You want to try something,
abogado?”

I shook my head, no.

Florio slowed down as the black smoke became thicker. The burning leaves now saturated the air, black papery cinders swirling in the breeze. Inside the car, the smell of the cordite combined with the sickly sweetness of the fire. Suddenly, Florio hit the brakes and slid to a stop. The copter wasn’t visible. We were engulfed by clouds of smoke. Waves of heat from the blazing fields poured over us.

“If we can’t see him, he can’t see us,” Florio said. “But we gotta get off this road.”