Stuff to Die For (11 page)

We got up and walked in the rear sliding-glass door. It didn’t exactly slide anymore but if you jiggled it enough it opened and closed.

“Skip, the playpen out there—still just the old couple and no baby?” Em had noticed it before.

James turned on the television and we sat on the ratty, faded cloth couch that passed as the best seat in the house. “I saw the old guy a couple of days ago and asked him,” he said.

“You just asked him what the playpen was for?”

“Well, he volunteered. He was out, I was out. He nodded, I nodded, and he motioned to the playpen. He said ‘For our grandson.’ I asked him how old and he says, ‘Six months. We’ve never seen him.’ So, I said, ‘He must live far away,’ and he says, ‘No, in Coral Gables. We never approved of the baby’s father, and when he was born my daughter decided to shut us out of her life.’”

“How sad.” Em had tears in the corners of her eyes. “So the playpen sits there and they wait for their grandson to visit?”

“I don’t know. The old guy shrugged his shoulders and walked back inside.”

The local Sunday morning anchor led with the story.

“A huge explosion in Little Havana rocked the community last night as a building called the Cuban Social Club caught fire about 2 a.m. Firefighters spent three hours battling the blaze.” Footage of the fire flashed on the screen and a fireman in full gear spoke into a reporter’s microphone.

“We don’t know the cause of the fire yet. It could be days before we are sure what happened. There appear to be three vehicles that caught fire as well.”

“Were there any casualties?”

“We haven’t been able to get inside the building, so we don’t know. The heat is just too intense.”

“Would you say, due to the intensity of the fire, that there may have been some accelerants involved?”

“All I can tell you at this time is, we are still fighting the fire. When it’s safe to go in, we’ll do a thorough investigation.”

The scene faded and the anchor came back on. “A source close to the location tells us the Cuban Social Club is the headquarters for a group of Cuban refugees called the Old Militia. The Old Militia is apparently comprised of Cubans who are known as
Los Historicos
. We’ll have more information as it becomes available.”

“What was that all about?” Em stared at the screen as the weather map came on.

James punched the remote and the screen went black. “
Los Historicos
—families that left Cuba when Castro took control. I think a lot of them had property that was seized by the Castro regime.”

“That was almost fifty years ago.”

“Yeah. And they still want their property back.”

“How old would those people be?” Em asked.

“It’s not just them. It’s their sons, daughters, and grandkids too. They’ve never even been there, but they want what was their inheritance.”

I remembered junior high history. “These are the ones who launched the Bay of Pigs invasion. They were trying to take the country back in the sixties.”

James nodded. “Yeah. And the story is that the United States was going to support them, and President Kennedy and the CIA backed out at the last minute. A lot of people got killed.”

We were all quiet for a couple of minutes. Finally Em spoke up.

“I wonder what the hell we’ve gotten ourselves into?”

All three of us jumped when we heard the sharp knock on the front door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

N
O ONE EVER CAME TO OUR APARTMENT. If there was a social event, we went there. Em and a handful of girls that James saw were the only ones who ever visited and only when they were invited. Our pink stucco hovel was not a place to invite polite company.

The staccato knock came again, and we looked at each other. A lot of the units around us had iron grates covering the windows and front door. I’m not sure why, because no one had much to protect. I knew that from selling—or attempting to sell—my security systems. Still, this was one time I wished we had the iron bars. Maybe to protect our lives.

I looked through the peephole and saw two guys, mid-thirties, in polo shirts and slacks. One guy had a huge mouth and he was licking his lips. They had dark skin, probably of Latin descent. The second guy shifted back and forth on his feet, anxious, maybe nervous.

“Two guys, dark skin, casual dress. Anyone want to see what they want?”

There was no response from my colleagues. If this involved the fire and last night, James was the one who got us into this mess, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to answer the door.

I opened it just enough to slip through the opening and stepped out on the front porch.

“Can I help you?” I was scared to death.

They were muscular, both carrying maybe twenty or thirty pounds too much in the mid-section. The nervous guy spoke first.

“You own the truck there?”

“No.” I wanted to be truthful.

“How about the Thunderbird?” He squinted, maybe trying to look intimidating. I was amazed I was out here with these two intimidators, but I was, and I wasn’t going to make this easy for them.

“Nope. Neither one is mine.” I kept thinking one of them would pull out a pistol or a knife.

They looked at each other, obviously not sure what step to take next.

“You James Lessor?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, can you tell us where he is?”

James could have been in the apartment or maybe he was on the back patio. He could have gone to the bathroom or the little kitchenette. I really didn’t know.

“I have no idea where he is.” They were going to figure me out in a second.

“How about—” The guy with the mouth pulled out a piece of paper, “—how about Emily Williams?” That heavy accent. Could have been the guy who flashed his flashlight and badge at us last night.

“Seriously. I don’t know.”

The first guy, with a rough complexion and slicked-back black hair, took a step toward me.

“Look, we ran the plates on these two vehicles in front of this apartment. Now maybe you don’t know where these two people are, but it’s important we talk to them.”

I was sweating bullets. “If I see them, why don’t I tell them to call you.”

“The car and truck are both here.
They’ve
got to be here. Why don’t you invite us inside just to see for ourselves.”

“Can I ask you why you want to see them?”

The greasy one looked for approval from the mouth. The big guy shrugged his shoulders.

“Both these vehicles were spotted in Little Havana last night, just before a building exploded. We’d like to talk to the owners about what they might have seen.”

“Are you with the police?”

“Yeah.” They said it almost simultaneously.

“Miami Police?” I didn’t believe it.

“Sure.”

“Do you have identification?”

The mouthy guy drew a deep breath. “If we find that either of these people had anything to do with the fire or if they say anything about what they might have seen, the cops will be the least of their worries. You need to tell them that. You need to tell them that whatever they saw or thought they saw last night needs to stay with them. Do you understand the message?”

I could feel drops of sweat running down my chest. “I think so. I’ll be happy to pass the message on.”

I saw him round the row of buildings in front of me. He just cleared the structure, paused, and stood there, like a silent sentry. I watched him for a second too long, and my two visitors both turned their heads and saw him too. He continued to stare at us, arms folded, an imposing black statue. Our own Angel.

They turned back to me, the look on their faces a little less certain. The greaser spoke. “You can’t begin to imagine what will happen if they tell anyone about last night. Please tell me you understand this.” He looked back over his shoulder.

“I understand.”

The mouthy guy with the accent put his hand up, and for a moment I thought he might strike me. “One more thing. If you ever watch a property again, don’t use the old ‘we were just making out’ routine. It’s very dated.”

They spun around and walked off the porch, getting into a big blue Buick.

I stood on the porch for thirty seconds, waiting for my heart to stop racing. Angel was nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

L
IKE I SAID, everyone liked Vic Maitlin. Even if you were envious of his swarthy good looks, his talent, his scholastic aptitude, and his sexual prowess, you still couldn’t help but like him. You could overlook the fact that he hung around with those two hoods, Cramer and Stowe. He was a guy’s guy. He’d hang with the regular guys and make everyone feel his aura. I know it sounds almost supernatural, but he had an aura. You wanted some of it to rub off on you.

“I wanted some of whatever he had. It just seemed that you should be able to bottle him and pour it over yourself whenever you needed a dose of cool.” James sat on the arm of the couch, watching the news babe, the sound a low babble.

“With a missing finger and threats from beefy guys like those two, I don’t think I’d want to be Vic right now.” I pulled a beer from the refrigerator. “Em?”

“No. I’m fine. These two guys actually mentioned what I said about making out?”

“Why would I make that up? Yes. The one guy seemed to know exactly what happened last night.” I twisted the top off and took a deep swallow. I needed something to calm me down.

“The phony cop.”

“That would be my guess.” I drained half the bottle.

“And they said to keep it quiet? Hell, we didn’t see anything.”

“Between the three of us we saw two guys in uniforms. Or maybe we saw the same guy. We saw the windows blow out of the building.”

James kept his eyes on the TV. “You said you saw three vehicles burning. Two in the parking lot, one in the alley after I’d left.”

“So what could we have seen?”

“Either we’re not aware of it or they think we saw something we didn’t.” Em stared at my beer.

“You sure you don’t want one?”

“No. A glass of water? Never mind. I’ve seen the glasses you’ve got in the cupboard. Chipped, stained, and I believe I saw mold growing on a couple of them. Get me another Sprite.”

“Wasn’t mold,” James said. “There was a sale on fuzzy glasses down at Gas and Grocery.”

Em feigned a smile as I handed her the cold green can.

James finally turned his head. “I think we drive back to Bal Harbor and confront Fuentes. He obviously has an idea of what the hell is going on.”

“I get the idea he may be responsible for what’s going on. I agree. Now that you’re a target—”

“I’m a target?” James looked at me questioningly.

“You and Em. They know your names and your vehicles.”

“Yeah. And they know you and Emily lied about making out in the car.”

“I don’t think they know who I am.”

“Nobody ran the plates on your ’96 Prism?” James asked.

“It wasn’t there, James.”

Orange flames licked the television screen and James increased the volume.

“More news on the horrendous fire in Little Havana early this morning. Police and fire investigators say that two bodies have been pulled from the rubble. At this point, Captain Ed Stabil said the remains were too badly burned to be identified.”

“Jesus, I hope one of them wasn’t Vic.” Emily looked up at me and for the second time that morning had tears in her eyes. She usually wasn’t the weepy type. “God, Skip. This just keeps getting worse and worse.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“A
LL RIGHT, I’LL CALL HER.” Em struggled with the idea. We’d brainstormed for an hour and decided that Jackie needed to know. She was the one who told Em that she thought there were terrorists involved. We thought maybe we could get a little more information before we confronted Rick Fuentes.

She dialed the number, and we sat drinking the last two beers and contemplating what the conversation might lead to. I looked at her, my eyes going up and down her body. I glanced at James and he was doing the same thing. So obvious. She wore tight pedal pushers and a top that exposed her stomach. It hit me that we hadn’t made love in a week. To be honest, I thought about it every day. Every hour. Every couple of minutes. Em’s got a great body, very fine skin, and fine golden hair that she wraps around every part of a guy’s anatomy. I wish I could say ‘wraps around every part of
my
anatomy only,’ but I’m sure there are others.

“Jackie!”

She paused, smiling.

“Hey, me too. I thought the same thing.”

One phone. No extensions. What the hell, it was fun to imagine what was going on on the other end of the line.