Salvador Brecksall did not want to be here for his last drop near the island, but it was a necessity. He might as well enjoy it. He drove his rented Mustang convertible over the bay bridge and marveled at the blend of sky and water. It was a diamond for the eye, a sparkling show of Mother Nature. He couldn’t wait to get on with retirement and settle down here.
He still had his sights set on Tuna Street. And he was ready to pay whatever price to get a spot on the island. He had a tidy fortune. He’d been all about the money, and he hadn’t cared much about how he got it. The drugs he flooded the streets with killed and ruined thousands, upon thousands, of people. But Sal was philosophical about his business dealings. “It’s the people’s choice. It’s a free country.” Surprisingly, he was all for legalization of marijuana because he assumed it would lead to more customers getting hooked on drugs. The leafy greens were his bread and butter, along with that sugar cocaine and heroin to top it all. What a feast. “People are so willing to go the banquet,” he often said.
He’d argued with his former partner, Harry Lam: “Get the stuff legal. I pay Uncle Sam some tax. So what? He’s happy, and I’m happy.” He didn’t consider the machinations of paying taxes and possibly having the IRS audit his books. It was moot now. He wanted out of the trade altogether. Harry had the right idea when he’d told Sal to take care of his health, and as a result, Sal surmised he would stop contributing to ruining the health of the others.
Besides, it was getting too risky.
Sal pulled into the Blue Dolphin motel in Bradenton Beach and checked in. He whistled while he walked. He would do this last run. Time was money, and a little side trip to Florida was nice, especially with the bad weather already up in Chicago. He eyed the small pool with rattan lounges and a Tiki bar where a gorgeous bikini-clad non-swimmer was sipping something fluorescent pink. “Ah, we don’t have that in Bolingbrook. Not even close.”
Sal ate grouper fingers at the Gulf Cafe, took a nap, and planned to head over to the High Tide. He wanted to get this show on the road. He had other things to do besides sitting in a bar and watching another drug drop.
Placer was at the ready. Somewhere. He couldn’t risk being spotted, but Sal wasn’t worried. The thug had a facility for covering his tracks. He needed to be careful. He could be recognized. Maybe by someone who had been in the vicinity of the parking lot the day Bob was found dead. Just the thought of the ruthless killer made Sal sweat, and he wanted to be rid of him, too.
He had other regrets. He sincerely wished Sergi had been better at his job, but the developer had been more interested in his paycheck than hyping up the money-laundering scheme and pulling off the kidnapping.
Of course, Sal and Placer knew nothing about the scheme Hank Miles, the DEA, and Chief Duncan had cooked up to greet the arrival of the seaplane, Mephisto. And he had no idea of Jack Murninghan’s part in the drop. Sal was pretty much in the dark about a lot of the details. He would take the money, and run.
Sal sat with Tony in the back office at the High Tide. Several platters of greasy battered shrimp and grouper and empty beer bottles littered a side table. Sal had his feet on a chair. Tony had gone through the drop drill many times, and he felt one more run-through was necessary. Sal was twitchy and restless. He didn’t seem to be tracking on the business at hand. And Placer, for all his worth, was MIA. “That bag of bones,” said Sal. “Don’t know where he got himself off to but he better show.”
“Forget him. We don’t have to do much,” Tony said, “except watch that the business goes down nicely. We’ve got people.”
“What does that mean? I’ve got people, too.”
“I mean, you don’t have to go swimming for the goods. I’ve got people who will drag the stuff under the dock into the boats and on to the trucks. You want to look?”
“Sure.”
Tony got up and Sal followed him.
Miles waved at Tony as he walked through the bar with Sal. It was all Jack could do not to strangle Sal, but he pulled his baseball cap low and kept his head down out of sight.
Haasi and Blanche—and now Liza—had moved to a booth. Jack eyed them. They were up to something. He couldn’t let it go. He had to get them out of there.
Minutes later, Miles called Jack out onto the deck. They fumbled over a pack of cigarettes and peered out over the bay. The evening was calm, a blue-black sky over water. A half-moon scattered light on the rippled surface of the bay.
They leaned on the deck rail, pretending their old drunken buddy routine. Their eyes shifted to Tony and Sal a short distance away. Miles could hear them with the listening device behind his left ear, and the conversation was being recorded. Tony had been bugged—in the lining of the leather of his favorite cigarette case. He carried it with him all the time. It had taken Miles a long time to determine where and how to plant the thing, so small and flat it was no larger than a squashed bug. Miles was glad Tony was a chain smoker, and that he took the case everywhere.
“Well, how can you risk it? There are people around,” said Sal.
“They clear out after one,” said Tony. “Do you see a lot of people hanging around here in the middle of the week? We usually make the drop on a Tuesday, but we have to mix it up. Makes it nice to do it then. Sort it out, get paid, have the goods for sale by Friday night when it gets hopping.”
Miles and Jack threw out just enough football terms to make anyone think this was a couple of semi-drunk guys arguing over stats. Miles hated smoking, but it was necessary in his line of work. He leaned on the deck rail, cupping the cigarette, occasionally jabbing the air with it.
“Hey, Miles, how you doin’?”
Miles acknowledged the bar owner with a nonchalant wave, and then he turned to offer Jack a cigarette and light it for him—his back to Tony and Sal.
“Street value. Mmmmm. Couple mil per this drop. Coke, heroin. Got Rick back on the Mephisto. Gonna be a nice one, this drop. Gonna be my payday,” said Sal.
“You can count it already, Sal? You don’t cut it with too much shit, do you? They know it. They’re payin’.”
“We aim to please. Ya know, I’m gonna miss the business. Been a good run and all. But I have to get out. I’m gettin’ on, Ton.”
Tony’s face brightened at the mention that Sal was getting older. Tony could step up, get his end of the trade pumping, take more control of the business. There seemed to be no lessening of demand. The restaurant would go under before this business with the coke, heroin, and marijuana did.
Tony clamped his lips in sympathetic agreement and patted Sal on the back. “You got it. Been a good run, and we aim to keep runnin’. Those Conchita Beach drops won’t end any time soon.”
Miles pulled his ear, a signal to Jack to play it down. He continued a less animated discussion of Mike Ditka. “Oh, yeah.” Miles slipped that in—between some generality about the ‘85 Bears and their latest quarterback.
They swigged the beer. They studied the horizon. A string of tiny lights like diamonds was lined up far away, the night fishing boats setting up to haul in the catch by morning. It was a clear night, perfect for a low-level flight over the barrier keys. A perfect night for a catch. They took deep, deep breaths.
Jack hunched his shoulders at Miles. It was almost impossible at this point to look casual, a guy enjoying the last of a late night at the bar. But he had to try.
Miles called it in. All clear. He did not use a phone—the beauty of new technology. He triggered the no-hands, no-phone call to other agents on the ground. Jack was supposed to retreat when the actual drop occurred, protect his cover. But he would be around. He planned to be part of this operation. Simple, fast, and clean.
His eye landed on Blanche and Haasi, both of them animated, sitting in a booth in the bar. And then he did a double take. Liza had joined them. A light shone down on them, laughing and talking. Concern hardened his features, but he seemed determined to stay focused.
“They’re ready. Agents in place,” said Miles. He still stared out at the bay, his hands folded on the railing. “Jack, you gotta lay low and get the women out of here.”
“I’m workin’ on that.”
“Don’t cause a scene. Let’s play along for now. We might have to leave it the way it is and crank in extra protection for them.” He spoke above a whisper, his eyes trained on the horizon.
“With all that’s going on? They need to go.” Jack bounced off the railing, but Miles held his arm. “Hey, how ‘bout that new linebacker?” Miles’s voice went up a notch. Jack sighed.
“Good thing Sal is here. He didn’t see you but you can ID the guy big time.” Miles talked through his teeth, topped with a hearty laugh for cover. He still had a hold of Jack’s arm.
“Just wish it would be over. What time is it?” Jack wiped sweat off his forehead though the night was a cool seventy.
“Almost game time.”
I
Sal was expecting a shipment in Chicago the same night the Mephisto was to drop its load in the Florida bay. Miles couldn’t believe the luck of the circumstances. Jack could place Sal at the scene of the crime in Florida, and agents in Chicago would follow up at the warehouse. If all went well, Sal was going to be cooked. Miles and the team had worked hard to catch the big fish, but they would settle for bringing in half a dozen other players, too, if it all worked out.
They had done everything they could to intercept the deal. Now, they had to wait. Miles had been on more than one raid, and each one was different, but one thread remained the same: greed and product. He was after the live fish he could throw in the tank. They were fish that swam for their lives. They were talking fish. Miles was hoping he’d catch some talking fish at High Tide, along with a sizable stash of product that would put all of them away for a long time.
They expected cocaine, heroin, and marijuana in the drop, but sometimes that bonanza didn’t happen. Sometimes they got one supplier, and one product, out of the way, with a plan to go back for more. And sometimes they were just lucky to make a nice sweep of it. Miles was counting on the latter, according to his sources. Jack had snooped around at Brecksall-Lam, but came up with nothing. No one was talking about any illegal transport or investigation. At least, not yet.
Tony and Sal headed to the back office. Two o’clock was closing time on a weeknight. It was last call.
Miles field-stripped his cigarette and put it in his pocket. It was better than throwing it out where the birds and fish could choke on it. Wasn’t that important? Apparently not, as Miles looked over the deck railing and saw dozens of cigarette butts down at the water’s edge under the dock.
He also saw a row of motorboats, nice and shiny, of similar make. He’d been informed. The boats were ready to take on their cargo and race off to the trucks for distribution. He noted how they were anchored and also noted that they were pointed at the only means of outlet. They would have to cross the bay. All the possible trajectories had been researched, but Miles double-checked this with agents. They had located the trucks on the mainland side between Bradenton and Sarasota and scoped the territory. If the Mephisto didn’t land at the High Tide and instead picked a random spot, the agents had to be ready to move and intercept at the receiving end.
All bases had been covered, but even the best plans had flaws. Miles had seen his share of screw-ups in his twelve years as a DEA agent, and their cost in time, money and personnel was an outrageous waste. They always happened because someone did not do the job.
Miles checked his watch. The plane was due over the bay near the High Tide between 2:15 and 2:30. It was a low-level flight plan, difficult to follow on radar. So far, the communication was that the Mephisto had one other scheduled drop and then would fly on to the High Tide. The plane would not be close to local water for more than sixty seconds; it would skim the surface, drop the product, and be gone.
The agents had worked out a plan of split-second timing to intercept the shipment, gather all the crooks, and get out of there. Miles had his end lined up. The shipment from the Mephisto would never make it to the trucks. At least, that was the plan.