Hans-Peter Schneider and Bobby Joe of the yellow eyes arrived in Bobby Joe’s truck to find the driveway of the Escobar house blocked by the gardener’s van. Bobby Joe drove Hans-Peter across the lawn and the flower beds to the front door.
Bobby Joe’s truck had a lift kit, a simulated roll bar of chromed plastic and a pair of TruckNutz rubber testicles hanging from the trailer hitch. His bumper sticker said if i’d known this i would of picked my own cotton.
Felix was there to greet them. He whipped off his hat.
“Patrón,” Felix said.
“Who found it?” Schneider was already walking toward the waterside garden. He wore linen in the heat, and black patent huaraches to match his watch-band.
“The old man who cuts the weeds.” Felix indicated Benito, loading tools into the van with the other gardeners. “He doesn’t know anything, I took care of him.”
Hans-Peter watched Benito for a minute. “Show me the hole,” he said.
At the hole against the seawall, Felix and Bobby Joe dragged the flagstone aside. Hans-Peter stepped back, waving the air in front of his face.
Felix showed Hans-Peter the picture he’d taken holding his camera down in the hole. He had moved the picture to an iPad.
The sea had come under the seawall to eat out a cave beneath the concrete patio extending almost to the house. The roots of trees hung down into the cave like crooked chandeliers. Pilings knobbed with barnacles supported the patio above. The water level at this stage of the tide left about four feet of space between the water and the ceiling. The erosion had exposed under the patio half of a sunken iron gravel barge, part of the landfill and dredging that built Miami Beach.
At the far end of the black cave, barely lit by the flash, the bottom shelved up into a beach. A shiny cube larger than a refrigerator stood at the far end of the cave, almost flush against the foundation of the house. Felix spread his fingers on the iPad, enlarging the picture. Beside the cube, at water’s edge, were a human skull and the back half of a dog.
“All the time we’re digging in the basement and the sea was digging for us,” Hans-Peter Schneider said. “Gott mit uns! It could hold a ton of gold. Who knows about it?”
“Nobody, señor. The other gardeners were in the front yard. The old man is an ignorant bracero.”
“Maybe it is you who is ignorant—or is it whom is ignorant? I can never remember English grammar. I’ve seen that old fart before. Get him. Send the rest of the gardeners home. Tell the old one we need him to help us. Say we’ll give him a ride.”
Out on the bay the loud crab boat was working back up the trapline, dumping rebaited traps now, the two deckhands throwing a trap overboard about every twenty yards in a steady rhythm.
In the wheelhouse Captain Marco fixed his binoculars on the garden of the Escobar house. He saw Hans-Peter and the others in the waterside garden, and he saw Felix and Bobby Joe bring Benito to join them.
“Rodrigo, drop the trapline,” Captain Marco said. He pointed with his chin. “Mayday, muchachos. Strap up. We go in hot if Benito has to jump.”
On the patio, Benito stood in front of Hans-Peter.
“I know you,” Hans-Peter said.
“Old men look pretty much alike, señor. I do not remember you.”
“Take off your shirt.”
Benito did not comply. It took Bobby Joe, Umberto and Felix to get his arms behind him and bind his wrists with two zip ties.
“Take his shirt off,” Hans-Peter said.
Felix and Umberto tore the shirt off Benito, pulled it out from under the straps of his overalls. Bobby Joe patted Benito’s pockets but not his chest. He poked Benito on the faint tattoo still visible on his rib cage. The tattoo was a bell suspended from a fishhook.
Hans-Peter nodded. “Ten Bells thief school.”
“Some foolishness from my youth. You can see it has faded away.”
“Felix, he belongs to Don Ernesto,” Hans-Peter said. “You hired him, Felix. You and Bobby Joe can take him for a ride.”
From the crab boat, Captain Marco saw Benito’s shirt torn off, saw Bobby Joe’s gun. He took out his cell phone.
A half mile up the street Antonio in his pool truck answered the call.
“Antonio, one of Schneider’s pendejos pulled on Benito. We’ve got to get him out. I’m going to the dock and cover him if he jumps in the water.”
“I’m going after him,” Antonio said.
Antonio pushed the old truck hard. It was not far to the bus stop where weary gardeners and maids were waiting to start the slow ride home. Antonio got out. Several of the people waiting greeted him by name.
“Transporte libre!” Antonio called to them. “Estoy celebrando! Voy a transportar cada uno de ustedes a su casa! A ride directly to your house! No dinero, no transfer. Vengan conmigo! Vamos a parar en Yumbo Buffet. Podemos comer todo lo que queremos! Plus takeout! A free ride to your doorstep. All you can eat on the way! Todo libre!!”
“Antonio, no manejas borracho?”
“No, no. I have not had a drink. I invite you to smell me. Come on!”
The bus riders piled into Antonio’s pool service truck. Two in the cab with him and three in back.
“First we pick up one more,” Antonio said.
Cari Mora was upstairs in the house with a six-pack of toilet paper and some lightbulbs. The bedrooms were a piggish mess, towels and a copy of Juggs Triple DDD skin magazine on the bathroom floor. The one made-up bed had some lewd comic books and the five parts of a field-stripped AK-47 scattered on it. A lube can oozed onto the coverlet beside two loaded banana clips. She picked up the lube can with two fingers and put it on the dresser.
Her telephone buzzed. Antonio calling.
“Cari, take cover. Get ready to bail. They got a gun on Benito. I’m coming after him. Marco’s coming to the dock.” He was gone.
Cari looked down from the high bedroom window. She saw Bobby Joe poke Benito with the muzzle of a pistol.
Slap slap click click—Cari put the gas tube on the AK-47.
When she pushed the hammer down with her thumb and held it out of the way with the trigger, the bolt and bolt carrier slid in easily, then the wavy recoil spring and dust cover. Function check. She inserted a banana clip and jacked a round into the chamber.
Locked and loaded in forty-five seconds. She went back to the window. The front sight of the rifle covered the bump on the back of Bobby Joe’s head. The front gate was swinging open.
As Antonio drove in the gate he called Captain Marco on the boat, put his phone on speaker and dropped the phone into his breast pocket.
Antonio could see Umberto putting three concrete blocks and some baling wire into the back of Felix’s truck. Benito stood beside the truck with Bobby Joe and Felix. Benito’s hands were behind him, probably cuffed, Antonio thought. Antonio drove close. He got out of the truck and approached the old man.
Seeing Antonio’s truck crowded with people, Bobby Joe held his gun behind his hip.
“Hey, Benito! Hey, señor! I’m supposed to take you home,” Antonio said. “I’m sorry I forgot.”
“We’re taking him home,” Felix said.
All of Antonio’s passengers were watching.
“No, señor,” Antonio said loudly. “I promised his Lupe to get him home for supper completely sober.”
A laugh from the people crowded into the truck. A few of them were puzzled, almost positive Lupe had been dead for years.
“She’ll kill me if I don’t show up with him.” Antonio turned to his passengers. “Will or will not Lupe kill me?”
“Sí,” said several in the truck. “Cierto. Definitely. Lupe will kill you, as she has killed all others who gave him the chance to drink.”
Bobby Joe came up beside Antonio and muttered, “Get the fuck out of here.”
“Shoot me in front of the jury, butt breath,” Antonio said softly.
Hans-Peter Schneider came out on the front steps. Bobby Joe and Felix looked to him. Schneider gave them a small shake of the head. Felix sidled behind Benito and cut the handcuff strips. Hans-Peter Schneider came down the steps and gave Benito a sizable roll of bills.
“We’ll need you in two weeks, comprendes? I give you another like this. There is no reason we cannot work together.”
There was much grumbling and joshing among the passengers as Benito found a seat in the back of the truck.
Antonio was talking down into his pocket on his telephone with Marco. “Where’s Cari?”
“I’ve got her. She’ll be coming out the back, I’m at the dock for her. Go!” Marco said.
Antonio backed the truck toward the gate. Hans-Peter held his hands out, palms turned back toward his men.
“Let them go,” Hans-Peter said.
Cari ran down the winding stairs carrying the rifle. She encountered nobody. She took the bird out of its cage and put it on her shoulder. “You better hold on. And leave my earrings alone,” she said, backing across the yard toward the dock where the crab boat waited, pressing with its bow hard enough to shake the dock.
She passed the rifle to Marco in the bow and jumped for the deck, the bird flapping. The crab boat backed away with a great thrashing, Marco with the gun covering the blank rear windows, seeing nobody.
Antonio drove away from the house, the gate swinging shut behind the loaded truck.
“Your shirt is a disgrace,” the man sitting on the spare tire told Benito. “They will never allow you in Yumbo Buffet.”