“Yes. We tried to take it back to Jackie, but she wouldn’t give us permission to come back to her home and-”
“She knows about the finger?”
“No. I don’t think so. So we-”
“Came here instead?”
James squinted. “Not exactly.”
“Where did you go? To the police. You went to the police. My God, a human finger.”
“Uh, Em,” I cleared my throat. “We didn’t go to the police.”
“Tell me.”
“We went to Rick Fuentes.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Well, James pointed out that it was his mail.”
“This is a joke. You guys made up this story just to mess with me.”
“No.”
“Tell me it’s a joke.”
“We’d be lying.”
She stood up and started pacing, taking short swallows of beer as she walked. “Jesus, what am I going to tell Jackie? Why this finger?”
“Well, it’s not her business is it? And we’re not sure why the finger. It came in the form of a threat to Fuentes.”
“Of course it’s Jackie’s business. And what kind of threat?”
I shook my head. “Em, it’s Rick Fuentes’s business. The threat seems to be from some Cuban guys who have an ax to grind with Fuentes. And we haven’t got to the bad part yet.”
“Give me a break. Tell me that it doesn’t go any further.”
“It’s his son. Vic Maitlin.”
She dropped the green bottle and it shattered into a dozen splintered pieces, watery brown beer running into the grout between the white ceramic tiles on the balcony.
“Vic? Oh, my God.”
“You remember him?”
“I went out with him. We dated. His dad wasn’t-I don’t remember. Maybe he’d left his first wife by then. I don’t remember anything about his father, but Vic Maitlin was the first-oh, my God.”
She let it hang. I knew they’d gone out before Em and I had started our off-and-on dating.
“It gets worse.”
“How? How could it possibly get worse? How?”
“Trust me. Since there are a limited number of people who know that this finger was sent to Fuentes-”
She held up her right hand. “One, Vic Maitlin. Two, the person who cut it off.” She held up her third finger. “Three, you. Four James. And five, Rick Fuentes.”
“Seven.” I was the business major, math was my strong suit.
“Seven?”
“Seven that we know of. You. And Fuentes’s girlfriend, this little nineteen-year-old blond.”
“Un-fucking believable.” I’d never heard her use that word in my life. “And it gets worse?”
“Fuentes asked us to find Vic.”
“You said no.”
“Actually,” I gave James a nod.
“Actually, I said yes.”
“Are you crazy? Have you completely lost your minds?”
“He’s paying us $5,000. And he claims to know where Vic is. He just wants confirmation.
“You are crazy. You’re both idiots. I simply gave you a lead for a little job and you’ve got yourself involved in a what? An international incident? Dismemberment? You’re nuts. I don’t even know you.” She glared at me, bending down, and picking up shards of green bottle.
I leaned over and helped.
“Here.” She held up her finger, a thin line of blood running down her hand. “Now I’ve cut my-” She stared at the blood then walked into the condo leaving James and me in the warm Miami night.
We finished picking up the pieces.
“Are you happy with all the advice she’s given you so far?”
“Fuck you. How would you expect her to react? I’d rather have her know than not. I don’t think Emily is someone I want on my bad side.” A ship horn sounded and echoed over the bay.
“I’ve always been on her bad side.”
She walked back onto the balcony, a Band-Aid on her finger. Stepping to the railing, she looked out at the water. Lights glimmered as far as you could see.
“You know where Vic is?”
“We know where his father thinks he is. All we’re supposed to do is sit outside and see if there is any sign of him. In twenty-four hours we report back to Fuentes.”
“It doesn’t sound difficult, not even particularly dangerous.”
James smiled at me. “And I didn’t think that sounded like bad work for five grand.”
“But we are talking about people who cut off fingers and threaten lives. I am still amazed that you guys could get in so much trouble in such a short amount of time.”
We both stared at the tile floor, watching the beer settle into the discolored grout.
“Tomorrow is Sunday.” She never looked at us but kept staring out at the water. “I don’t work, Skip doesn’t work, what about you, James?”
“No Cap’n Crab tomorrow.”
“All right. What if the three of us keep an eye on this place tonight and tomorrow. We can use my car and your truck and alternate. We’ve got our cell phones if one of us sees anything, and we’ll call Fuentes either way.”
James let out a deep breath. “I’m surprised. I actually think that’s a good idea. We can go over there now, and a couple of us sleep while one watches the property. I knew this was going to work.”
Em turned around and gave James a hard look. “I didn’t take a cut on your hauling job. You guys worked hard for that.”
“Thanks. We appreciate that.” James smiled at her.
She didn’t return the smile. “I’m taking a third of this.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE AREA KNOWN AS LITTLE HAVANA isn’t too far from Em’s condo. The address Fuentes had given us was just a couple of blocks from American Airlines Arena, the sprawling building where the Miami Heat play. It’s almost forty concrete steps up to the entrance of the arena, and once you get inside you can climb twice that many steps and stand at the top for ten bucks. With a pair of binoculars you can almost make out the game.
Next door, in the shadow of the old stone Trinity Episcopal Cathedral, is Bicentennial Park, an overgrown brick terrace that leads down to what once had been a fountain. A handful of anemic palm trees surround the pitted, broken bricks that line the once proud structure, and flattened cardboard boxes litter the ground where a homeless community spends its nights. It’s not a safe area.
Passing the park, Em took a right and two lefts. I was surprised when she pulled up to the structure. It looked like an office building. All Fuentes had given us was an address, and we’d figured it was a house. You’d keep a hostage in a house. This was no house. Two stories, stucco and brick with a gray steel door and two lower story windows that appeared to be painted black. The upper windows had curtains or drapes drawn across them and there was no sign of any light. A small, paved parking lot ran alongside the building connecting it to a closed restaurant. Castero and Sons. I suddenly realized how hungry I was. James used to make a pork sandwich, with tomato and his own anchovy mayonnaise between two pieces of thick, buttered, and grilled Cuban bread. I could have eaten one of those right now.
Two late-model Chevys were parked in the back. As we coasted by I saw the small sign above the front door.
CUBAN SOCIAL CLUB
I was in the T-Bird with Em.
“We can park half a block away and see just about anything from the front.” Em parked the ’Bird. James had pulled ahead a block and called me on his cell phone.
“Hey, pard. Where do you want me?”
“There appears to be an alley that runs behind the place. If there’s a rear entrance someone should probably watch that.”
I saw him drive the truck down one street then pull into the alley.
“There’s a door at the rear.”
I told Em.
“Well, have him watch that and we’ll rotate. One person sleeps, while the other two watch the front and back.”
I told him it was my idea. He’d never go for it if he knew it was hers.
James took first watch of the alley, Em from the front. I was supposed to sleep for the first three hours. It’s eleven o’clock at night and we’ve all had one of the craziest days in our lives. We’re on an honest to God stakeout, and I’m supposed to sleep? Oh, I’m sure that around three in the morning, when it’s my shift, I’ll be ready to crash, but not now.