'Mr. Glossman, don't you want me to stay here and see if I can find out who did this to Rene? No doubt it was murder. Someone put her on that airplane in Bimini. It's a small island, I'm sure to find out something over there.'
'No. We'll handle it from here. You come on home. Bimini is too dangerous a place with all the drug running going on. I'll hire some local people. It'll work out better that way.'
Taken aback, my mind was racing. Why didn't Glossman want to find out who killed this young woman? 'If you don't keep me on the case, I'll stay and find out on my own. Listen, by the time you bring someone else up to speed whoever did this could be long gone. We've got to act now.'
There was a long pause. Then, 'You're probably right. Let's see, today's Thursday…you have until Monday. Be careful in the islands. Do you need anything?'
'Yes, ten thousand in cash. Send it down with the airplane.'
'That much?'
'This is the land of the Snowpowder. Buying information is expensive.'
'It will be on the plane. Take care of Lynn, she's been acting strange lately. Viewing the body may be traumatic. Keep in touch.'
Musing about Lynn Renoir, I was puzzled. There hadn't been any strange behavior. Sure, some mood swings and a temper, but nothing too far out.
Glossman gave me an estimate of three o'clock for arrival of his plane with Lynn on board. In the meantime, I wanted to talk with the pilots for Chalk Airlines. Steve cleared his desk for the day and would tag along with me, said he wanted to keep me out of trouble. That was a lie, he wanted to know what happened to Rene Renoir as much as the rest of us.
'You know I had to call homicide.' He seemed to be apologizing. 'The hospital would have called them anyway.'
'All help is appreciated.'
'They will probably want to talk with you and the sister.'
'Yeah. Listen, if you wanted to do away with someone, would you torture them, dose them with opiates and hallucinogens, put them on an airplane to the mainland, and then call the Miami Police Department and tell them she's on the way?'
'Finally starting to think, are we? There are a thousand ways to eliminate a person, especially with all the hungry sharks we got running up and down the Gulf Stream. What I think happened is the job was botched or someone chickened out on the kill. This was not a professional hit. You can bet your bottom dollar whoever wanted her dead is unhappy at the moment. Never send an electrician to do a plumber's job.'
'Right. Someone is very unhappy.'
Chalk Airlines is located in a small building on the north side of the Miami ship channel. It's on one of the most valuable pieces of property in south Florida. It is also the oldest continuously operated airline in the United States. Politicians have tried for decades to shut it down so that millions could be made from the real-estate.
The man who started the operation died in the late seventies. He was over eighty years old and succumbed from injuries sustained in a fall while trimming a tree. His airline has always operated seaplanes with routes to the out islands of the Bahamas. They have never lost an aircraft or a passenger in all their years of operation. So much for the dreaded Bermuda Triangle.
Chalk's station manager informed us that the pilots we were looking for were due to arrive in about twenty minutes. They would have a quick turnaround, but we were welcome to talk with them during that time.
We watched the old Grumman Goose come lumbering in, dodging cargo ships, cruise ships, pleasure craft, and other seaplanes operating in the narrow channel. The Goose landed on the water with a smooth gliding motion. She taxied up to the ramp with one wing drooped low, like a wounded duck. Waddling out of the canal onto the ramp, the plane stopped in front of the operations office. Salt water poured from every wetted surface.
Steve knew the two pilots. They were more than willing to talk with us, but they didn't know anything other than a Bahamian man helped the woman on board. She seemed unsteady, but walking. As soon as she sat down in the seat, she was fast asleep. The police met the airplane when they landed and she was taken away in an ambulance. They did hear one of the Customs agents in Bimini, who also moonlights as their station manager, say she came off a sportfisherman. It was berthed up at the public dock in front of the Complet Angler hotel.
Asked if on the next trip over would they find out the name of the boat, the Captain replied, 'Look, Mr…what was your name?'
'Jay Leicester.'
'Mr. Leicester, we can't do that. We fly into an area that is extremely dangerous just from the dope traffickers alone. If we started asking questions that didn't concern us, how long do you think we would last? We've got enough trouble keeping the routes since Bahamian Airlines started operating. I'm sorry.' He was not an old man, but he had the weathered look and crow's feet around his dark eyes that said he'd seen his share of tropical sun glaring off of blue oceans, ugly thunder storms, lousy coffee, and low pay to make him a seasoned veteran of the cockpit.
'We understand. Call Steve if you happen to hear anything.'
'If it comes our way.'
On the way downtown Steve said we shouldn't count on getting any information from the flight crew. Even if they knew something, they wouldn't tell us. As we turned off the freeway onto Biscayne Boulevard Steve seemed to be thinking. 'I'm sorry about the girl. It's always sad to see one so young die, especially the way that she did. It wasn't an easy trip. I've seen too many people die the hard way. It always makes me sad.'
'In this world there are few enough people who care for you. Rene has a loving sister. The gutless ones who did this will be punished or killed. That's a promise.'
'I know you're going over. The Snowpowder boys control some of the islands, Pindling and his group control others and, more dangerous than them, is a faction trying to take over the entire chain. Bloody wars are shaping up. The worse thing that ever happened was when the British turned control over to the Bahamians. It has been chaos ever since.'
'Thanks. This has to be done, though.'
'Yeah, I understand.'
Turning off Biscayne Boulevard onto Southwest Seventh Street Steve asked if I wanted lunch. 'I know a Cuban restaurant that serves good black bean soup and sourdough.'
'Sounds fine.'
In a few minutes we were in Little Havana. If you don't speak or read Spanish you have no business in this part of town. We drove all the way out to where Southwest Seventh Street ran at an angle into Southwest Eighth, or Calle Ocho, as the locals know it. It is a wide, tree-lined street kept neat and immaculately clean. We passed quaint shops. There was Casa de Guayabera, where you can buy well-made Cuban style shirts at good prices. Perezosa's bakery, where fresh bread is put out every morning at eight a.m. and sold out by eight-thirty. Then we passed by the El Credito Cigar factory where my friend, Ernesto Perez Carrillo makes the finest cigars in the world from aged leaves of the finest Cuban seed tobacco, and hand-rolled by 'Tabaqueros' (cigar makers) from the old country. I am never without the fifty-four ring, long filler, seven and a half inch Charlamagnes.
Steve turned off Calle Ocho and drove one block and turned into a parking lot at the rear of a building with a sign that read, Malaga Restaurant. The entrance was a dark lane, shaded by tropical trees that opened up into a bright, colorful garden about twenty feet square. There were beautiful flowers and bushes with birds singing. The walkways were lined with hand-painted tiles, and the buildings were crafted from old, hand-hewed wood.
Steve was greeted like an old friend by a maitre d' who didn't have a hair on his head, not even eyebrows. He was dressed in a red waistcoat, white shirt with a bow tie, black pants and shoes. Leading us into a small, dark, cool dining room, he sat us at a small table over by a brick wall. A bar was at one end of the room and there were old, stained-glass windows at the other. On two walls were huge paintings depicting the Corridor, or bullfight, by an artist I did not recognize. Over the bar hung the head, hoof, and tail of a fighting bull, along with four banderilleros, a muleta, and an acero. Off to the side was a Matador's black hat. I could not remember what it is called. It was the small hat, not the black, flat-topped ones of the Picadors.
