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.”
Chapter 27
Guillermo 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
