As a result, gang drug trafficking was increasingly disrupted by police. Arrests and convictions mounted. Parts of Coconut Grove were becoming cleaner. Then the pattern broke.
Major drug traffickers, aware that some kind of espionage must be occurring, began asking questions. At first there were no answers. Then an arrested dealer overheard one drug cop say to another, "Stewie sure came through this time."
Within hours a question was buzzing through the Grove: "Who the fuck is Stewie?"
The answer came quickly. Along with it, through neighborhood gossip, the wheelchair group's tactics were exposed.
Stewart Rice had to die, and in such a way as to warn others like him.
The contract killing was ordered for the next day, which was the point at which through coincidence Patrick Jensen became involved.
* * *
Jensen had become a regular at the Brass Doubloon, a noisy, smoky bar and lounge well known as a hangout for drug dealers, and that night when he walked in, a voice from a table called across, "Hey, Pat! You writin' somethin' new, man? Come tell us!" The voice belonged to a narrow-faced, pockmarked ex-con with a long rap sheet, named Arlie. He was with several others, also part of the scene that Jensen had come to know during his search for a crime story. One in the group whom Jensen had not seen before was a huge, hard-featured man with wide shoulders, powerful arms, close-cropped hair, and a mulatto's complexion. The stranger, dwarfing the others, was scowling. He growled a question, which another at the table answered.
"Pat's okay, Virgilio. He writes books, see. You tell him shit, he makes a story. Just a story nothing real, don't do us no harm."
Someone else added, "Yeah, Pat keeps his mouth shut. He knows he'd better. Right, Pat?"
Jensen nodded. "Absolutely."
A space was opened for him and a chair pulled in. Facing the huge newcomer, he said easily, "No need to tell me anything, Virgilio, and I just forgot your name. I'll ask one question, though." Everyone stared. "Can I buy you a drink?"
The huge man, still scowling, looked at Jensen steadily. Then he said, in a heavily accented voice, "I buy drinks."
"Fine." Jensen did not look away, either. "A double Black Label."
A barman behind them called, "Coming up!"
Virgilio stood. Looming even larger on his feet, he announced tersely, "First I piss." He turned away.
When he had gone, the second man who had spoken, whose name was Dutch, told Patrick, "He's sizin' you up. Better hope he likes you."
"Why should I care?"
"Because nobody messes with Virgilio. He's Colombian; comes and goes here. On his home turf, four finks double-crossed their boss, talked to Colombian cops. Virgilio got the job of showin' 'em they did bad. Know what he did?"
Jensen shook his head.
"He found them, tied 'em to trees, their arms stretched out. Then he used a chain saw on every one cut off their right arms."
Jensen took a hasty sip of Scotch.
Arlie whispered, "Do you some good to know Virgilio. Be some action tonight. You interested?"
"Yes." Even as he spoke, a new thought occurred to Jensen.
"When he gets back," Dutch said, "wait for a bit, then go to the can and take your time. We'll ask Virgilio if it's okay to let you in.''
Jensen did as he was told. Soon afterward, a nod.
* * *
"Keep on following the jeep," Dutch instructed Jensen. "And when they stop and turn off their lights, do the same."
It was almost 3:00 A.M. They were in Jensen's Volvo, having driven thirty-five miles south on Florida's Turnpike, led by a Jeep Cherokee ahead, with Arlie driving and Virgilio his passenger. Then, just past Florida City, an entrance to the Everglades, they turned onto Card Sound Road, a desolate byway leading to Key Largo. By the light of a half moon, Jensen could make out the tidewater and broken-down houseboats nestled along mudbanks on either side. There were no homes or villages to provide ambient light, nor was there any sign of other cars. Motorists shunned this route at night, preferring the more traveled and safer U.S.1 Highway.
"I sure as hell couldn't live in one of those shitheaps," Dutch said. "Could you?" Their headlights had revealed a pile of debris that was once a boat, with a crude sign reading, Blue Crabbs for Sale. Jensen, wondering by now why he was here at all, didn't answer.
At that moment the jeep in front swung off the road onto a gravelly area, stopped, and its lights went out. Jensen followed, turned off the Volvo's lights, and got out. The two from the jeep stood waiting. Nothing was said.
The big Colombian walked to the water's edge, peering out into the darkness.
Suddenly, headlights appeared. A tradesman's van, with a "Plumber's Pal" logo on its side panel, pulled off the road and stopped next to Virgilio and Arlie's jeep. Immediately two male figures left the van; Patrick noticed they were wearing gloves. The newcomers went to the van's rear doors, where the others joined them. Jensen hung back.
Inside the van, a shape was visible. As the object was pulled to the rear, Patrick saw it was a mechanical-type wheelchair that had been transported on its back. A figure was in the chair and, though secured by ropes, appeared to be struggling. Virgilio moved forward; he, too, had slipped on gloves. Then, as if the heavy chair were weightless, Virgilio lifted it out and stood it upright. Patrick, who now faced the chair, could see that the seated figure was a young male, gagged and bound. He could see the captive's eyes moving desperately from side to side, and the mouth working, too, trying to eject the gag. Somehow, for a moment, the man in the chair succeeded and spat part of the gag loose. Looking at Jensen, who was separate from the others, he blurted, "I've been kidnapped! My name's Stewie Rice. These people will kill me! Please help "
The words had barely finished when Virgilio smashed an enormous hand against Stewie's face. A spurt of blood emerged from his mouth along with a sharp cry, stifled as Dutch reached out and readjusted the gag. Still the captive's eyes roved, frantically pleading. Jensen had to look away.
"We move quick," Virgilio pronounced, propelling the wheelchair toward the water, again lifting it easily when it stuck. The pair who had arrived in the van followed, one carrying a chain, the other a cement block. Dutch joined them and beckoned Jensen to follow. Reluctantly, he did so. Arlie remained on shore.
Now they were in the water, whose course had been dredged out years before as a canal. Although shallow at the edge, farther out it plunged down to eight or ten feet. The two who had brought the wheelchair waded forward, maneuvering around a tangle of mangroves.
Ahead through the blackness was a mangrove islet, one of several, surrounded by shallow water and sea grass. The two from the van, who appeared to know the locale, had stopped where they felt the water deepen. One said, "Here'll do."
Virgilio, propelling the chair and its panicked occupant on his own, pushed it forward until the captive was more than half immersed. Now the other two used the chain to secure the chair, passing it in turn through each wheel, now underwater, then at one end fastening it to a plant stump on the islet, and at the other end to the cement block they had brought.
"Sure as hell won't float," Dutch said. "Tide's rising now, be over his head in a couple hours." He laughed. "Give the bastard some time to think."
The figure in the wheelchair, who had clearly overheard, moaned and struggled harder, but the only effect was to shift the wheelchair deeper in the water.
In the darkness Jensen shuddered. Since facing the captive, he had known he was part of a murder, as an accessory at least. But he knew, too, that if he had tried to leave, he could become a victim also. Virgilio would not hesitate to make that happen.