“We put it in the storage unit.”
“Can’t. Fingerprints are all over it. Jackie knows we were carrying the mail.”
“We go to the cops, James. Now.”
“Like hell! My whole life was fucked by the cops. Because my old man’s business partner split with the money, the cop s arrested my dad. The cops threw him in jail when he didn’t know a goddamned thing. They convicted him and put him in prison for five years, Skip. Five ball-breaking, rip-your-guts-out years. That’s the way it was. You think I want to go to the cops with my fingerprints all over this thing? You think I want to put this finger and envelope in that storage unit so somebody can come back and claim we were involved in some sort of mutilation or murder? You think I want one damned thing to do with the law? You’ve got another thought coming. Mr. Fuentes is going to get his mail. Tonight. You on board?” He kept his eyes straight ahead, driving, as far as I could tell, without a destination. Steam was just about rolling out of his ears.
For some reason I thought about our young Bahamian friend, Angel. Angel seemed to be high on drugs most of the time or totally blown away on alcohol, but we both considered him a friend. He’s learned to function in society in spite of his addictions, or as he calls them, his afflictions. Regardless of what they are, or in spite of what they are, Angel has a pretty good head on his shoulders. Angel can be very philosophical at times and I lay it on his intelligence and intuitive nature. He also reads a lot and memorizes these passages. They often have relevance-unlike James’s movie quotes. James says it’s the drugs he takes, but I think Angel is brilliant.
I’ve heard Angel spout off philosophical sayings, and most of those times I’d have to agree with James. It was the drugs. However, one of Angel’s aphorisms immediately came to mind when James asked if I was on board.
“No task is a long one but the task on which one dare not start. That task becomes a nightmare.”
I know, it’s a stretch to believe a person high on chemical substances can think like that or remember it from verse, but he does. That’s Angel. But I was still confused how he knew about the hauling job. James must have mentioned it and then forgotten. There were many nights when that was more than possible.
“All right. I’m on board. How do you propose to find this Rick Fuentes? I mean, we could call Jackie and-”
“No. Can’t call Jackie. Let’s keep her out of this.”
“All right. We know he lives in the Bal Harbor area. We could-” I was out of ideas.
“Call information.”
I stared at James as he concentrated on the road. We were headed down to the Bal Harbor area. I recognized the well-lit streets with high-end shops, perfectly groomed palms planted at regular intervals, and elegant high-rises that looked out over the harbor.
“Dial it.”
411.
“City and state please.”
“Miami, Florida. Bal Harbor-a listing for Rick Fuentes.”
It was a recording. The operator picked up. “Miami?”
“Yeah.”
“Name?”
“Rick Fuentes.”
“Please hold while we dial that number for you.”
Son of a bitch. That charge would show up on my bill. Minutes and information charges, these things kept adding up.
The phone rang. “Shit, James. He’s actually listed. What the hell do I say to him?”
“The truth.”
“What?” I was near panic at this moment. Rick Fuentes could pick up the phone at any second and I’d be left going, “Ah, uh, ah, uh… .”
“Can you just tell him that we have some of his mail and we’d like to deliver it? Would that be so hard?”
“No. I can do that.” Well thought out. I had to hand it to my man.
James pulled over to the side of the street. We were in the area. Neither of us had a clue how to navigate in this well-to-do neighborhood. I’d been here once with Em. We shopped at Saks Fifth Avenue. She shopped at Saks Fifth Avenue. I didn’t spend a penny except for the six bucks for parking and the forty-dollar lunch. Two sandwiches and a shared salad. This was one expensive neighborhood.
“Hello. We can’t come to the phone right now. Please, leave a message and we’ll call you as soon as possible.”
Was there an original message anywhere in the world? One that said. “Hey, taking a crap, but once I’m done, I’d love to talk to you.” Or one I’d almost done at our apartment in Carol City. “We have caller ID. We know who you are. If we wanted to talk to you, we would have picked up, but obviously we didn’t. If you have anything at all that’s important to say, you’ll have to say it on the machine.”
“This is Skip Moore. I have some mail for Mr. Fuentes. If you’d like us to deliver it to you please call me back.” I left the cell number.
“We could sit here till next summer.”
“He’ll call back.”
“Next summer?”
“These rich guys. They need to stay in touch, but they screen their calls.”
“James, you are always sooooo wise.”
The phone rang.
“Hello.”
“This is Rick Fuentes.”
“We have some mail for you.”
“Bring it by. Here’s the address.”
Shit.
No task is a long one but the task on which one dare not start. That task becomes a nightmare.
CHAPTER TEN
C ARL ICAHN IS A FINANCIER who lives in the Indian Creek Village area. According to what I’ve found on the Internet, this man supposedly has had more financial encounters than most rich people. He proposed a hostile takeover of TWA and tried to take over Marvel Comics. I mean, Spiderman’s home turf? Come on. He owned the Sands in Vegas and a billion other companies. When we were driving by the mansions on the private island, James pointed out a palatial estate that he thought was Icahn’s. I’m not sure how he knew, but I think he’d seen pictures.
I was thinking about Icahn as we drove back into Bal Harbor following Rick Fuentes’ directions. I asked James what these people did for a living. Here were condos. Hundreds, maybe thousands of condos that started at maybe $800,000 and went up to four or five million. What the hell did all these people do?
I knew what Icahn did. He played with other people’s money.
“You want to know what these people do?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
“I can tell you, but you won’t like the answer.”
“Humor me, James.”
“They make a lot of money.”
Shit. As usual, James was semiuseless.
“It’s eBay mentality, Skip.”
“What’s that, James?” When he’s being an asshole you have to call him on it. This time it didn’t faze him.
“It’s the mentality of stuff, Skip. It’s the reason we have a Chevy truck.”
“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s the reason we’re going to be able to afford one of these two-million-dollar condos in a couple of years. Listen, bro, people are into stuff. I told you this before. They buy tons and tons of crap on eBay. They collect junk. Books, cars, antiques, memorabilia, stuff they’ll never use. Stuff that has no earthly value to them. Stuff, Skip. Stuff, and more stuff.”
“What does that have to do with the price of a condo?”
“If you have stuff they want to buy, you can get rich. Norman Branon lives in Indian Creek Village. He owns four car dealerships in Florida and three in Colorado. Acura, Audi, Bentley, BMW, Porsche, and,” he drew a deep breath, “Cadillac. People buy his stuff, pardner. Lots and lots and lots of his stuff.”
“And that’s why Norman is living in Indian Creek.”
“And why we live in a one-bedroom piece of crap in Carol City. This guy gets rich off of stuff. Hell, Skip, he used to own the Philadelphia Eagles.”
“And we don’t have this stuff.”
“Never will. Don’t even want it.” He paused. “Well, I still think I’m going to buy a Cadillac. But we can haul all this stuff. We’ll get a bigger truck next time and haul Mr. Branon’s Cadillac wherever he wants.”