“You said that already.”
“Yeah. It hasn’t changed. However, I really don’t think going out with you works.”
James was in his selling game. “Jackie. Is it a class thing? You’re rich, I’m poor? Or is it an age thing? Because you can’t be more than a year older than I am and-”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’re a charmer. However, I really don’t want to be seen with someone new at this point. My attorney cautioned against it. It’s that simple.”
And that was it. We finished our drinks with some mild banter and hopped in the truck.
James had the address for the storage building and we drove away.
“So that’s the line. ‘Want to grab a bite to eat?’”
“She has some class, and some money, bro. I couldn’t use my standard line, ‘Wanna fuck?’”
The storage unit was in a small industrial park about seven miles from Indian Creek by the map and about ten million miles from Indian Creek by the status of the community. What the hell, it reminded me of Carol City. We drove through the narrow drives dividing the single story units until we saw number 352.
“Are you going to back it in?”
“We could just park it alongside.”
“It’s going to be a lot easier if you back it in.”
“All right. Get out and guide me.”
I didn’t envy him. The space between the two buildings was narrow and I would guess even an experienced driver would have a tough time. He stuck his head out and surveyed the concrete area in front of the unit.
“How close am I?”
“Cut the wheel, more.”
“It only cuts so far, pardner.”
Now he was wedged. The truck was cockeyed in the space.
“Straighten it out and start over.”
He hit the gas, still in reverse. If I hadn’t jumped about four feet sideways I would have been smashed. Instead, I landed hard on my ass as I heard him yell, “Shit.”
The truck rammed the building and I heard a thud and a crunch as the side of the building and the back of the truck buckled.
“Skip, are you all right?” He jumped from the driver’s seat and jogged to the rear as I picked myself up. I patted myself down, checking to see if anything was broken.
“Oh, shit.” James covered his eyes with his hand.
I walked over to the truck and surveyed the building. “Man, you caved in the side of the unit.”
“I don’t give a damn about that. Look at the truck.”
“We’ll get it fixed, James. What about the building?”
He gave it a quick glance. “We’ll unload and take off. Nobody can prove we did the damage.”
Of course, he was right. The aluminum siding was damaged, but it could be repaired as well.
James reached into his pocket and took out the key. He turned it and gave a tug as the garage door opened into the cavernous storage space.
I fought with the heavy metal latch on the truck, finally forcing it open. The sliding back door eased up as dozens of boxes and envelopes spilled out onto the concrete apron.
“Shit.” James stared at the four weeks’ worth of mail strewn across the front of the unit.
“Help me pick this up.” I gathered an armful of envelopes and put them back into an open box.
“What the-” James picked up a manila envelope.
“We’re not going to make much progress one envelope at a time,” I said.
“Something is wet and sticky here.”
“Did you break something?” I didn’t see how that could matter. Someone was probably going to haul this stuff away in a couple of months and sell it or take it to a dump.
James examined the envelope, then tore it open. He peered into the opening and froze.
“What?”
He didn’t speak, just kept staring.
“What is it?”
“Oh, shit. Oh, shit.” He dropped the envelope and shuttered.
“James.”
I picked up the envelope and glanced inside.
“Take it out.”
“Oh, God. You take it out.”
“No, man. It’s gross. It can’t be-”
I shook it out of the red-stained envelope and it fell to the concrete. Coagulated blood covered the stub of the severed finger. A blue-stoned class ring circled the knuckle. I shook the brown envelope again and a smaller gray envelope fell out. I stared at the finger, wanting to believe it was something else. Wanting to believe it was a magicians trick or a joke that James was playing. But deep in my stomach I knew it was real. Someone in Miami was missing a finger and we were the lucky guys who had found it.
I lost my Long Island Ice Tea on the cement.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T HERE’S A LINE IN THE MOVIE The Mexican that says, “Guns don’t kill people, postal workers do.” Despite James’ affinity for that quote, he had a belief that bank tellers would be the next group of employees to go ballistic.
“Seriously, Skip,” he had said one afternoon on the patio. “Tellers stand there for six or eight hours and watch people come up to their windows. Some of these people have nothing, and the teller feels sorry for them. They’re taking out every last cent they’ve got and the teller knows they have nothing left. After a while they start to feel really bad.” He sucked on his green bottle and puffed on a cigarette. With Psychology 101 behind me, I’ve always felt he has an obsessive personality.
“Then, they get all these rich assholes who come in and deposit hundreds of thousands of dollars. Or take that much out. They tell the teller that they’re making a down payment on a yacht or a cottage in the South of France, or whatever. After a while, these bank employees should go nuts. They’re making what? Ten bucks an hour. More than the poor people and a whole lot less than the rich.”
“What’s your point?” I asked.
“Bank tellers are going to start to kill people out of frustration.”
“Who? Which class?”
“The rich people. They’re going to start shooting the wealthy.”
I got to thinking about that. In a way, Rick Fuentes was a banker. He arranged financing for business people. He’d raise the money, make the loan, and collect the interest. Maybe the people who gave him the cash weren’t happy with the way he was lending it. Or maybe a client who had borrowed money from Fuentes wasn’t happy with the terms. Seriously, maybe this was a banker thing.
We’d found a neighborhood bar about a mile from the unit. In a back corner booth we nursed our drafts. I hoped that this drink would stay down.
“Read it again.” I waved at the bartender and he pulled two more Buds from the tap.
James pulled the letter from the small gray envelope.
“ We ask you to reconsider your decision. If you agree with us, we will give you the rest in relatively good shape. Jesus, Skip, what the hell does it mean?”
“It means we should go to the cops.”
He shook his head. “No way, compadre. It’s a federal offense to open someone else’s mail.”
“James, my God. It’s someone’s finger.” I left the rest of our discovery hang in the air.
“Not just someone’s finger.” James wasn’t going to leave it alone. “Someone who graduated from St. James High with us.”
