short swig, letting a little of the warm liquid into my mouth but plugging the bottle’s opening with my tongue.
“More!” Tiger ordered. “Drink it all.”
Again, I sipped at the flask. “ Hmmm, good. Firewater strong medicine.” It was a line I thought Henry Osceola would like.
Jim Tiger didn’t share the chairman’s sense of humor. “Do you think Native Americans are funny?”
On the road, a pair of eighteen-wheelers rumbled past, kicking up dust clouds in the glare of the headlights.
“No. I just make bad jokes when I’m scared.”
“Mr. Florio was wrong about you. He said you were smarter than you looked.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Is there anything you want to tell us before we get on with this?”
“Did you hear the one about the bosomy blonde who was trying on dresses with plunging necklines?” I asked, stalling for time. They both stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “She asks the saleswoman if the dress she had on was too low-cut. ‘Do you have hair on your chest?’ the saleswoman says. ‘No, of course not,’ the woman responds. ‘Then it’s too low-cut.’”
“That’s enough!” Tiger shouted. “Drink it. Drink the whole thing. Now!”
I leaned my head back and let it flow. The whiskey was warm and raw in my throat. It was still gurgling down when I sensed movement in front of me.
A blur.
Oomph.
Tiger’s left fist plunged deep into my gut, and I spit whiskey all over my herringbone suit. I dropped to a knee, gasping. It wasn’t the hardest I’d ever been hit. It wasn’t the hardest I’d been hit today, but I wasn’t going to tell Tiger that.
I was sucking in air, and Tiger was talking. “Faulty equipment, driving under the influence, and resisting arrest. Get to your feet.”
I pulled myself up, using the rear gate of the pickup for leverage. I was huffing and puffing, but part of it was an act. Playing possum. Enough of the scaredy-cat.
“Cuff him,” Tiger ordered. He had backed up a step.
Alachua took his hand off his gun and reached behind his back to find the handcuffs. I needed a step to get to Tiger, but I didn’t want to leave my feet by lunging at him. I didn’t knowhow much quick I had left after having the wind knocked out of me, but I didn’t have a choice. I took the stutter-step on wobbly knees, feinted with the left, hoping to bring the nightstick in that direction, so I could have a clear shot with a short right at his jaw.
I didn’t get within two feet. Tiger saw me coming and lifted the nightstick toward my chest. It never touched me, but a green explosion caught me square in the sternum, a fluorescent flash that knocked my feet out from under me and sat me on my ass.
I didn’t see stars.
Stars would have been better.
My legs were noodles, my arms paralyzed. My teeth felt loose. My tongue was swollen, and my ears were playing Mozart’s Turkish March. I felt wet and clammy. I looked down. I had pissed my pants.
“Whoa, baby!”
It was Alachua. He was cackling. “Whoa, baby!” Over and over, or was it just bonging back and forth in my brain?
He cackled again. “Never saw the Zap Stick used before on a person. Holy shit.”
“Twenty thousand volts will do that,” Tiger said.
I was aware of the noise. A droning whir.
It made me want to sleep. Maybe I was in bed. But my head seemed to be bouncing off a metal floor. Cold metal. And that noise. It made my jaw ache. Or was that the cold?
I felt myself shiver. Trying to sit up now. Jerked back down again, my right arm refusing to follow the rest of me. Shaking my arm. A rattling. My wrist cuffed to a cold, rusted railing.
Above me, the moon. The sensation of movement. Fast. I listened to the droning whir. I propped myself up on one elbow and looked over a low railing. I was right. We were moving. Flying through a wheat field.
No, not a wheat field. A jungle, maybe. I’d been here before, but when? I couldn’t remember. A splash of water came over the rail and smacked me in the face. I tried sitting up. In a chair above me, a shadowy figure with his hand on what looked like a rudder. I started to say something. With his other hand, he picked up what looked like…no, not that again. I remember that.
The world exploded into green fluorescence.
Somebody said something. What was it?
“He smells boozy and pissy. Like my old abuelo. ”
I wasn’t flying anymore. No more water. I cracked my eyes open. I was lying facedown on a smooth wooden floor. It smelled of clean, fresh varnish. I wanted to lie there awhile.
“Are we going to wait for the boss?”
A different voice. Familiar. I’d have to roll over to see who. The last time I rolled over, somebody put me back to sleep.
“ El jefe’s busy making money. He gave me the papers, but he should be here in time for the closing.”
A chuckle. “The closing. I like that.”
I didn’t.
I turned my head an inch and peeked. One alligator cowboy boot. One shiny black shoe. My astute powers of reasoning-inductive or deductive or whatever-told me the same man wasn’t wearing both. In all probability, there were four feet altogether, divided by two equals two men, one belonging to each voice. Very good, Lassiter, go to the head of the class.
Another peek across the room. Dark furniture, shuttered windows. I knew this place. I’d been here before. Nicky Florio’s humble fishing cabin.
Heaven on earth.
I rolled my head just enough so I could look up. The ugly face of Guillermo Diaz was staring down at me. “ Hola, abogado! Ey, Sleeping Beauty is up.”
The pudgy creep was wearing low-slung pants, a western shirt, and cowboy boots to make him taller. Another head appeared. My old pal Captain Tiger of the tribal police. It was his strong dark hand that reached down and grabbed me by the scruff of the neck. I still had on my suit coat and felt overdressed for the occasion. I helped him get me up, swinging my feet underneath me and standing on rickety legs. He guided me to a chair at a card table. A table with a green felt top. Hey, I remember the table, too. But there weren’t any stains. The table was new. I looked toward the ceiling. No dark spots. Then at the floor. It had been sanded and refinished. Not a trace of Rick Gondolier’s spurting blood.
Diaz and Tiger took seats on either side of me.
“No thanks, boys,” I said. “The last time I played poker here, I lost my shirt, and somebody else lost his…”
A thin leather briefcase sat on the table in front of Diaz. He reached inside and withdrew a file. Inside the file was a document he pulled out and shoved in front of me. It had my name on top, how flattering: Statement of Jacob Lassiter. But the typing was haphazard.
“Read it!” Tiger ordered.
“‘Drink it, read it.’ That’s all I get from you. Nag, nag, nag.”
“Okay, shithead, just sign it.”
“No, I think I’ll read it. Hey, you don’t see many manual typewriters anymore. That floating e makes it look like it was typed on my…”
Diaz smiled his lowlife’s smile. “Ey, how come you don’t lock your door? Not that it would matter. I could break into Fort Knox if the price was right.” He allowed himself an egg-sucking laugh. “You like my typing?”
I started reading to see what I decided to say. “To Whom It May Concern.” Ah, the personal touch.
I kept reading: “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done. I’m sorry it had to come to this.” The words seemed to be floating all over the page, and not just because the old Royal was one step from the scrap yard. My head was swimming. I put a finger on a line of type and traced along as I read.
