firearms. I guess that’s accurate. There could have been some murders committed and thank God that didn’t happen. There was no mention of a dead CIA agent.
I thought about going to the authorities. But what authorities? I wasn’t sure whom to trust and, unless our names came up in the investigation, I figured we were better off sitting on the sideline.
Em was leaving, James was going to be out of it for a while, and it seemed to me that maybe I had some serious growing up to do. Somehow I should be taking a life lesson from this entire experience, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it was.
About nine I wandered out to the cement slab, sipping on my second beer of the morning.
I glanced at the playpen behind the apartment and did a double take. A little black boy was sitting on the mat, grabbing at a plastic yellow duck. The patio door opened and the old man stepped out. He nodded.
“This is my grandson, Jason.” Very matter of fact. Like the little kid had been there for months.
I nodded back. He picked the boy up, grabbed the blue blanket, and walked back into the apartment. I took a deep swallow for myself, then one for James.
I called the police and reported the truck stolen. They called back and informed me they’d found it and were holding it for evidence. I could pick it up in a week or two. And, I visited the hospital for three days straight, but James was never awake. I’d sit for an hour then leave. They’d seriously medicated him for the pain.
I thought about going back to work but hadn’t made the effort. It seemed easier to sleep late, drink beer, and feel sorry for myself. I drove by Gas and Grocery a couple of times, but the old lady said Angel had disappeared. All I know is he was more than just a casual bystander. By the third day, the story had also disappeared from TV, radio, and the newspaper.
I called Jackie. Maybe twenty times. She never answered, and after three days her number was disconnected. And then our apartment phone started ringing two or three times a day, but no one was ever there when I answered, and when I tried to get the number, it was blocked. I kept hoping it was Em, but with my luck it was one of the big money guys trying to scare me for ruining their invasion. It worked. I was a little frightened.
But, I’ve got my backup. I copied the list of donors and put it in a spot that no one will ever find. Then I sent a letter-you know how that works, a letter to an attorney that says, “In the event of my untimely demise, please find the following information, etc.” I felt stupid when I did it. I don’t feel so stupid now. I’m not going to say a thing to you or anyone else, but trust me, there were some huge names on that list.
The fourth day, three o’clock in the morning, my cell phone went off and I grabbed it during the first two notes. “James?”
His voice was gravely, like he’d been coughing. “I’m s’posed to be resting, pard. But I needed to thank you for savin’ my life. Remember?”
“Yeah. I remember. I found out that saving someone’s life doesn’t necessarily mean much.”
“It does to me.” He was quiet, like he’d drifted off to sleep.
I smiled. He was still on medication. Slurring his words, sort of drifting in and out.
“Skip?”
“Yeah, James.”
“We’re gonna make it big. You wait ’n’ see.”
“Yeah, James.”
“Skip?”
“James?”
“’Member that Cadillac my dad never drove?”
“I remember.”
“I’m gonna get one, and I’m gonna drive it for the old man. We’re gonna make enough money to get a big Cadillac and drive it downtown Miami.”
“I’ll be by your side, James.”
“Gonna happen, pardner. You have my word on that.”
“Your word. Got it.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, “All I got is my word and my balls, and I don’t break them for nobody.”
“Al Pacino, Scarface.”
“Hold down the fort, amigo. I’ll be home soon.”
EPILOGUE
The body of agent Salvidor Santori, a Cuban-American CIA operative, was found on the roof of the Colony Hotel in South Beach six days after our bizarre incident at the warehouse on the Miami River. He’d been shot in the face, but the bullet stayed in his skull.
Several weeks later I caught a blurb in the Miami Herald. It mentioned that a government employee named Mark Spense had been found shot to death. The story went on to say that the bullet seemed to be of the same caliber and from the same gun that killed Salvidor Santori. That’s all I ever saw. There’s been no more news about the killings.
I know who killed Agent Mark Spense, just before he was about to throw three of us in the Miami River. I can only assume that the same person killed Santori.
It’s been over a month and no word from Em. I keep hoping I’ll hear from her, but she has a lot to work through.
