Long Way Down (4 page)

“Huh,” Sam said.

“La Salle’s story proved a little harder to find, though. Looks like he didn’t exist until Moran got killed. That tells me he changed his name from something else.”

“What about Grimes?” Sam said.

J.T. chuckled. “My source says he died about five years ago.”

****

LA SALLE KICKED the air near the Sensei’s head. The Sensei jumped back and returned with a kick to the midsection. La Salle stepped back and blocked the kick, then spun and threw another kick toward the face. The Sensei’s eyes narrowed in the millisecond La Salle’s foot came toward his nose, and he dropped to the floor, swept his leg behind La Salle’s knee and La Salle hit the floor on his back. The thin mat did little to cushion the blow, and the boom of flesh striking the wood floor reverberated throughout the magnificent old beach house.

The Sensei stood and pulled La Salle to his feet, an awkward move since La Salle towered over him by at least a foot and a half and outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds. La Salle winced as he got to his feet.

Little dude better be glad I’m paying him to do this, La Salle thought, otherwise he’d be dead. The Sensei bowed and smiled. He enjoyed this. The little man possessed a tenth degree black belt and had trained students of the martial arts for more than twenty years.

“You very good, quick,” Sensei said. “Need work on defense, less on attack. All for today.”

La Salle drew deep breaths from the effort, and his shoulder-length hair dripped with perspiration. He bowed and mumbled his thanks, and the Sensei walked out of the room. La Salle watched him open the door and leave and saw Marcus outside the door grinning. Marcus came into the room, uninvited.

“You kick his ass again, boss?”

“Sure,” La Salle said. He never let the help watch his training. They might lose respect seeing a five-foot guy knocking him around the room. They wouldn’t appreciate his remarkable ability to just hold his own with the Sensei.

La Salle walked to the refrigerator at the far end of the dojo and found a bottle of spring water. He opened it and gulped it down, then tossed the empty to Marcus.

“I’m going for a shower. Let me know if Danilov calls.”

“Okay, Sally, will do.”

La Salle turned and walked toward the wall where a Japanese fighting sword hung on two brass brackets. He reached up, took the sword from the brackets and looked at it, admiring the nineteenth-century craftsmanship.

“You ever look at this sword, Marcus?”

“Sure, I seen it. One day when nobody was around I snuck a peek at it. It’s a beauty.”

“Yes, it is,” La Salle said, still looking at the polished metal. “Would you do something for me, Marcus? Would you hand me the cloth there on the table?”

“Sure.”

Marcus reached for the cloth and turned back, and La Salle slammed his hand over Marcus’ wrist, pinning it to the table, and swung the sword down as if chopping a pork loin. The blade cleaved the tips from Marcus’ four fingers.

Marcus screamed and jerked his hand away.

La Salle wiped the blood from the sword on the polishing cloth. He could tell that Marcus didn’t know what had happened until he saw the tips laying there, splattered with blood. His eyes went wide and he gasped when he looked at his hand.

“Why’d you do
that
?”

La Salle looked at Marcus and smiled.

“Don’t ever address me as Sally again,” La Salle said, his voice calm and soothing. “It’s either Mr. La Salle or boss. Okay?”

Tears flowed down Marcus’ cheeks. He glanced at his injured hand and nodded. “Splendid. Now, don’t forget about Danilov.”

La Salle re-hung the sword and walked out of the room. He untied his black belt with his free hand and looked down at the blood spattered on his white uniform. He made a mental note to send Marcus to the store for a fresh one.

****

SAM STEPPED onto
Slipstream
as his phone chirped again.

“Some help you were.”

It took a second for Sam to recognize the voice as that of Candi Moran.

“What do you mean? I saved your life.”

“Yeah, you took me to that quack house, where I was a sitting duck for those guys.”

“Well, sounds like you’re okay, now. How’s the bullet hole healing?”

“It’s all right,” Candi said.

He opened the hatch and went inside. “I went to see Tommy. He said he didn’t know where you were, but I guess he lied, huh?”

“Yeah, he knew. He told me to call you because you’re a stand-up guy.”

At the refrigerator, Sam pulled out a beer. He twisted off the cap and took a swallow.

“Are you?” she asked, “a stand-up guy?”

He turned off all the lights and parted the lounge curtain so he could see the lighted parking lot. The Dodge guys were back from dinner. “Sure,” he said. “If Tommy says so, why would you have any doubts?”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t lie to me, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“So what do you want?”

“You going to help me or not?”

Sam drew a deep breath and sighed. “It depends on what you want me to do.”

“Meet me and we’ll talk about it.” She gave Sam the name of a coffee house in Little Havana.

Sam looked outside again, and said, “Okay, but make it in a couple of hours. I’ve got to take care of something first.”

He hung up the phone and went to his stateroom where he found an overnight bag and packed some clothes and travel items. Thinking he might not be back for awhile, he stuffed a couple stacks of cash in the zippered compartment, then put on a light jacket and dropped his Glock 9mm into the pocket.

Sam locked the hatch on his way out, walked to his car and got inside. The Dodge came alive, headlights flashing in his rearview mirror, and it followed a hundred feet or so behind him driving out of the marina.

He drove across the MacArthur Causeway and headed west toward the Everglades, the traffic light for that time of day. After about thirty minutes the city’s neon lights disappeared and thickets of mangrove and palmetto sprang up in the headlamps. Black water glistened just inches below on either side of the road, broken only by the occasional thrashing of creatures clinging by a thread to the ecological chain. Pieces of dead reptiles and raccoons dotted the side of the road, casualties of high speed assault by the humans.

An alligator waddled across the road not a hundred yards ahead and Sam slowed the car to let it pass. The gator never turned toward the car’s lights and displayed no urgency in escaping their inspection. It reached the other side and slid into blackness.

The old Indian store was near, so Sam kept his speed about forty and clicked on his brights. He spotted the sign within another mile and then the weathered wood building that had squatted there for at least a hundred years and now seemed to be sinking into the earth. An image of the place had stuck in his mind from a few months before when he drove to Naples. It had closed for the night, and no light escaped the ghostly structure. No one would find the guys tailing him until morning.

Slowing to turn into the shell-and-sand driveway, he glanced at his rearview mirror. The Dodge trailed a couple hundred yards back. Sam took his time so they wouldn’t lose him, and turned in, watching the Dodge’s lights go off as it neared.

He drove to the right side of the building, stopped, and turned off the engine, leaving the lights on. The car's beams illuminated the side of the store and an abandoned old stilt house about seventy feet beyond, down a narrow, overgrown path. He stepped out of the car, walked down the path, and reached the house in a couple of minutes, about the time the automatic feature turned off the headlights. Perspiration trickled down his neck inside the warm jacket.

Just before the lights turned off, Sam noticed a wooden stair leading up to the old house. He felt his way along, walked around the corner to where he thought he would be hidden and took his gun from his pocket. After a few minutes, his vision improved and he saw two men inching down the path.

They walked to the stairway, and one of them stumbled and cursed. A second later the man turned on a flashlight and held it low as they started up the stair. Sam stepped around the corner and swung the butt of his gun at the head of the one with the light. The man grunted and crumpled on the stairway. The light dropped onto one of the steps and rocked back and forth on the warped wood, illuminating the other man’s legs. The man turned and fired. The shot went skyward as Sam pulled the man’s feet from under him and dragged him down.

Sam picked up the light and shone it on the man with the gun. Grimes. He grinned as if he had just found twenty dollars.

“Hey, man, we aren’t after you.”

“I know,” Sam said.

“Then why all the violence? We’re the good guys.”

“Get up.”

Grimes seemed to be struggling to his feet when he jerked his gun toward the beam. Sam hit the gun with the flashlight, knocking it away, and smashed his own gun against the side of Grimes’ head. Grimes fell back to the ground and lay still. Sam pulled the gun from Grimes hand and stuck his own in his pocket.

The light still worked and Sam shone it on the other man, who continued to nap on the stairs.

Something large rustled in the water only a few feet away, and Sam shone the light into the wet undergrowth. Two large red spots bounced back. An alligator, maybe even more dangerous than the two reptiles from the Dodge.

Sam reached his car, drove out the driveway and found the Dodge parked on the highway about where he expected. He shot all four tires with Grimes’ gun, threw the gun into the black water next to the mangroves, and drove away to meet Candi Moran.

Chapter 5

T
HE DOORS of the coffee shop stood open, and the sounds of low-riders floated through the entranceway on a balmy breeze. A silent ceiling fan turned lazily overhead. Candi was the only customer in the place at this late hour, and she glanced up when Sam walked to her table. She looked different from the last time he’d seen her, her hair in a pony tail and her face tan, as if she might have spent the last week in the sun. Although in pretty bad shape a week ago, she seemed to be okay now. She wore jeans with a low cut blouse, and glasses too large for her face. Her lips seemed fuller than Sam remembered, and he wished they were meeting for a romantic dinner, rather than to discuss someone trying to kill her.

“You sure you’re Mackenzie?” she asked and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure.”

“Sorry. I never got a good look at you.” She glanced toward the door and then back at Sam. “Sit down. You’re attracting attention.” She nodded toward a short old woman next to the cash register who looked as if she might have her fingers wrapped around a weapon underneath the counter.

Sam took the seat across from Candi, which gave him a view of the door she watched so carefully.

An awkward silence lay between them until a waitress arrived at the table and took their order for
cafe con leche
. He watched her retreat toward the counter before speaking.

“So, what is it you want me to do?” Sam said.

“I don’t know. I mean, Tommy said to go see you and you’d know what to do.”

Sam nodded and wondered about the wisdom of getting involved in this mess. He didn’t owe Tommy Shoes or this girl anything.

“Did you plug La Salle’s guy with that little gun of yours?” Sam said.

Candi Moran’s eyes widened behind the glasses. “Well...yeah. But he shot me first. I just happened to be better with a gun. I heard he died, and that's too bad. Too bad, he didn’t linger awhile, that is.”

“I still have your gun, but I didn’t bring it with me.”

She smiled for the first time. “Don’t worry, I got another one.”

A car drove by with the radio playing a song Sam didn’t recognize.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened to your dad?” Sam said as the music faded away.

“Tommy told you about him, huh?”

“A little.”

“Philly got a raw deal.”

Yeah, I bet
. The sound of a jet approaching Miami International droned in the distance. Sam, feeling warm inside the jacket, removed it and laid it on the chair to his right. The gun in the jacket pocket made a clacking sound when it touched the wood bottom of the chair. The waitress returned with a tray in her hand. She narrowed her eyes when she heard the gun, as if she had heard that sound before, then set cups of coffee in front of them. Sam waited until she left before speaking again.

“I heard he stole a few million dollars and got caught.”

Sam studied Candi’s face. She pursed her lips, glanced at the doorway and blinked her eyes. She took her time, trying to be cool, but Sam could see the blood rising in her face.

“Maybe you should just hit the road if you believe that.”

Sam took a sip of the coffee and kept his eyes on Candi. He held the cup in front of his lips and had another sip.

Sam shrugged. “I never met your dad.”

“Well, it didn't happen like that.” She took a sip of her coffee.

“Okay, then tell me,” Sam said.

“These guys are after me. That’s the only thing that’s important.”

“Yeah, but I need to know why, and I assume it has something to do with the money.”

“Well, I know what happened to it. That’s why they want me dead.”

Sam sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. She looked at him, took a deep breath and sighed.

“Okay. Philly called me about three months ago and told me something funny was going on. La Salle had bought the business and Philly stayed on for a while to help him get on his feet. Philly said La Salle started moving a lot of money into dummy corporations. Most of the money belonged to clients.”

“Clients?”

“Yeah, they handled...investments.”

“What kind of investments?”

Candi raised an eyebrow.

“High risk.”

Candi took a sip of coffee and then jerked her head as a car with loud pipes passed outside. She took another deep breath and set the coffee down.

“Philly said La Salle had tampered with the books. He made the entries look like Philly stole the money. That’s when he started worrying about taking a fall. About a week later he went on the lam.”