Stuff to Die For (10 page)

In the dim light I could see her smile as she leaned over and gave me a kiss on the lips. “No. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I leaned back and drifted off. I had just hit sleep mode and was lazily watching a fishing stream with trout and bass that became our muddy ditch, and James was casting this huge garbage can lure into the brackish water when the world exploded.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I
HEARD IT, I FELT IT, and I saw it as my eyes flew open. The upstairs windows exploded in a blast of shattered glass as a ball of fire roared out of the building. In less than a second the street in front was blazing with orange chunks of flame thrown from the stucco and brick building, and we watched spellbound as a brilliant blaze shot into the black Miami sky, the inferno engulfing the structure.

Em started the car and peeled out.

“Where the hell are we going?” Talk about feeling the heat. I was sweating from fear and the intense fire from half a block away.

“Anywhere. We’ve got to get out of this.”

James. “Jesus, James was back in the alley.” I frantically dialed his cell phone. No answer.

It rang and rang. Finally voice mail.

“The person you have called is unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message and—” I hung up. I dialed again. Same thing.

“Em, we’ve got to check out the alley.”

“Skip, are you crazy? That fire is roaring back there.”

She was three blocks down, moving at a good clip, and had run one stop sign already.

“Em—”

“Shit!” She spun the wheel, making a sharp U-turn in the middle of the deserted street. “Call 911.”

“Yeah.” I did.

She raced back the way we came, squealing to a stop as we saw the parking lot. The two Chevys were swallowed in flames. One had exploded and flaming pieces littered the melting blacktop. I jumped from the car and ran toward the alley, tasting the thick smoke and holding my arm across my face, trying to keep from filling my lungs with the fumes from that noxious cloud. The fierce heat cooked my skin and I thought for a moment I might pass out. I hit the back alley on the run and stopped short, peering into the haze. White-hot flame spewed from the vehicle, more black smoke pouring into the alley. There was nothing I could do.

I jogged to the T-Bird, coughing, gagging, and choking.

“What?”

“Jesus Christ, Em, it must be the truck. It’s a roaring inferno.” We could hear the sirens in the distance, whining with the occasional barking of the horns as they sped toward the blaze.

“James?”

All I could do was shake my head.

“Skip, is there anything we can do?”

There was nothing.

She stepped on the gas and we went speeding down the street, as far away from the burning building, the incinerated truck, the uniformed man, and the fire engines as we could. I was leaving my best friend behind, and I had never felt so helpless.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I
WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD when my father left home. My sister was eight and Mom was thirty-two. I remember things about him, like he smoked Camels. He worked in a machine shop and Mom would sweep up metal shavings that he tracked into the house on a daily basis. I’m not sure why he walked out. I don’t think it was another woman because he didn’t remarry. For a while anyway. I remember he smelled like tobacco and he’d bring home red-hot candies and we’d eat them until our mouths burned.

James was six months older than I, and I leaned on him as much as a twelve-year-old can lean on another twelve-year-old. I didn’t go home from school because the pain was too much to bear. I’d go to James’s house and Mom would end up calling, wondering where I was. I think she was glad I had a home away from home because it made life easier for her. One less problem in her life.

James was the brother I didn’t have, the best friend that everyone should have, and an inspiration that encouraged me to reach farther than I probably would have. James was always there. Always.

“Skip, I’m sorry. So sorry.” Em slowed down and pulled into a deserted parking lot a mile from the fire.

“How the hell could a day turn into such a catastrophe? A little side venture, some extra money.”

We could still hear the sirens in the distance as more engines came to the rescue. An orange hue lit up the sky and plumes of smoke climbed into the night, drifting over the neighborhood. I could smell the acrid odor in my clothes and hair. The ’Bird would smell like smoke for some time to come. I tried to push James from my mind, but it didn’t work.

“We’ve got to go to the cops.”

I nodded.

“If Vic was in that building—” She trailed off.

“If James was in that truck—”

“And that’s why we’ve got to go to the police. Skip, this is my fault. I should have talked you guys out of this.”

I gave her an icy stare. “Get over yourself. You couldn’t have talked him out of it if you’d tried, and I’d pretty much bought into it myself. You had nothing to do with it.”

“James.” She rested her arms on the steering wheel, gazing out the windshield at the darkness. “God, I could have tried harder. I could have had a little more understanding, compassion.”

“Born in the USA” chirped in my pocket. I grabbed the phone and flipped it open.

“Skip?”

“Oh, my God. James!”

Em grabbed the phone from my hand and yelled into the mouthpiece. “You son of a bitch. Goddamn you to hell! Where the hell have you been?”

So much for understanding and compassion. James was alive and things were back the way they had been.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

E
STHER’S SITS ON TWENTY-SEVENTH in Carol City and doesn’t serve alcohol. So if you want a good meal and a
drink
, you’ve got to go to Chili’s. However, if you want some of the best home made grits, biscuits and gravy, sausage, baked chicken, or peach cobbler
without
a drink, Esther’s is your place.

We sat in the vinyl and wood booth and looked out at the Kentucky Fried Chicken next door. It does strike me that most of the time we’re the only white people in the restaurant. Living in Carol City, an “urban” community as my friend Carl, the manager of Walgreens, calls it, I’m a minority. You get a good sense of how minorities feel in an all-white community when you live in Carol City.

“So do we go to the cops or not?” I watched their faces, looking for signs of surrender. We were all set to tell everything we knew until James called. Now we weren’t sure.

“You guys have a cop ask you to leave the area. I think I see who could be your cop go into the building. Five minutes later a cop car pulls up behind me with his light flashing—”

“And why didn’t you call us about that?” Em frowned.

“He gets out of the car, tells me to either leave or follow him to the station, and I was just pulling away when all hell broke loose. I was busy putting the pedal to the metal.”

I sipped on my third cup of coffee. A heavy-set black lady in the next booth shoveled a heaping spoonful of red beans and rice into her mouth. “Are you sure it was a police car?”

He thought for a moment. “No. But he had a bubble light on top.”

“Could have been a security vehicle, or just a car with the light. You can buy those. Scott Morrissey had one, remember? Used to put it on his car and scare the hell out of the people making out at night down at Boynton Beach.”

“Yeah.” James stared out the window.

“So, James, do you think that car was the vehicle I saw that was on fire?”

“I didn’t stick around to find out. If there was a vehicle burning in that alley, it might have been the same car.”

I still smelled like smoke. I’d showered, put on clean clothes and still could detect the sharp pungent odor.

Em frowned again. “Quit sniffing yourself. You’re fine.”

“Do we go to the cops or not?”

“Not.” James was adamant. Since his father’s arrest, he’s avoided cops at all costs.

“Why not?”

“Have we done anything wrong?”

I pondered that. “Good question.”

Em chewed on a piece of toast. “I’m sure we’ve broken the law somewhere.”

“Where? I doubt there is a law that says you have to call the authorities when you find a finger. And I know that sitting outside the Cuban Social Club was not against the law. Moving belongings isn’t illegal. So where have we broken the law?”

“All right, maybe we haven’t. But they’re going to want people to come forward who saw what happened.”

James held his hand up. “Hold on, miss do-gooder. What exactly did you see? A fire. That’s all. We didn’t see how it started.”

“How about the cop—or the phony cop. We could tell someone about that.”

“I don’t think we’re obligated to do that. And I don’t want to cross Fuentes.”

“Would the second installment on the five thousand dollars have anything to do with that?” Emily smirked. Somewhere between a smile and a frown.

“I believe you cut yourself in on that, so we’ve all got something to lose.”

She was quiet.

“There’s one upside to this mess.” I’d been thinking about the positives. There weren’t many.

“We don’t have a building to watch today.”

They both shook their heads. James dragged a sausage through gravy and stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed it carefully. “So the question is, do we call Fuentes? We did our part, kept up our end of the bargain. Now we need to know where he stands.”

We
agreed. Fuentes needed a phone call, and
they
agreed I should make the call.

James left to drive down the road to our humble abode. Em offered me a ride in the smoky T-Bird.

“James is gone.” I looked into her eyes. “What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

She hesitated. “Nothing. Not right now. It’s something that can wait, okay?”

“Em?”

“Later.” She paid at the register and we drove back to the apartment in silence.

CHAPTER TWENTY

W
E SAT IN CHEAP PLASTIC CHAIRS on the cement slab. Em had a Sprite and even though it wasn’t quite 8 a.m. James and I had beers. The older couple behind us were nowhere to be seen, but the playpen was set up like always, with a faded blue blanket draped over one side.

“I think it’s too early to call.”

James tapped the phone on my lap. “We need to tell him before it makes the news.”

I punched in the numbers and the little blond answered.

“Hi, this is Skip Moore. Can I speak to Mr. Fuentes?” Moments later he came on the line.

“Mr. Moore. Do you have news?”

“Uh, yeah. Sort of.” I never did well in speech class. “We watched the building last night—”

“And?”

“And it caught on fire. It was a huge fire and—”

The thick Cuban accent sounded like that guy from the old TV show,
Fantasy Island
. “Caught on fire? What do you mean caught on fire?”

“It was more like an explosion.”

“And the occupants?”

“We seriously don’t know. We were approached by a policeman just before the building exploded, and he told us to leave the area.”

Fuentes was quiet for a moment. Then, as if he were talking to himself he said, “So the fire was preplanned. They knew that I knew.”

“Knew what, Mr. Fuentes? That Vic was staying there?”

“Have you told anyone? That you were watching?”

“No.” I glanced at the co-conspirators. “We haven’t said a word to anyone.”

“Don’t. Do you understand? This entire incident—you looking for Vic—this must remain in strictest confidence.”

“No problem.”

“Mr. Moore, I can’t stress this enough. You could be in a lot of danger if you mention this to anyone. I’ll be in touch with you in the near future.” He hung up the phone and I sat there looking at the receiver, more confused than ever.

“What?” James took a swallow of beer.

“I think I was threatened.”

Em looked up from her coffee. “Threatened?”

“He said the fire must have been preplanned and they knew that he knew too much. Then he said to keep it to ourselves or we could be in a lot of trouble and he’ll be in touch.”

“Make any sense to you?”

“None.”

“Anything about the $2,500?” James, the guy watching the bottom line.

“Maybe he’s a little more concerned that his son was in that inferno. Maybe that’s a little more important that our $2,500 right now.”

Em sipped on the Sprite. “The local news should be on at eight. Let’s go in and see what they’re saying.”