I said, “Yeah? So what’s to keep a tough prosecutor from hauling you in and making you talk about your clients?”
“If I never meet my clients and do everything by phone, there’s nothin’ to talk about, now, is there, smart-ass? Plus, do I look like the kinda shit-heel who’d squeal?”
As I started to answer, he held up a cucumber-sized finger. “Nope. I don’t care to hear no more questions from you, Mister Booky-Boy. You a little too nosy for your own good.”
As we got near the security gate, he spoke again in a whisper, “Final warning, dudes-if you’re wired or carrying a weapon, they’re gonna cuff you and take you to jail. This is your last chance to spook out.”
I wasn’t carrying a weapon. I’d brought a weapon, but it wasn’t on me. It was back in the rental car: my 9 mm Sig Sauer, an old and familiar handgun that I usually keep well oiled and locked away in my fish shack. Now, though, it was in a belly pack stowed beneath the front seat.
I’m not a gun fancier; care nothing for shooting. I hadn’t told Tomlinson or Pilar about bringing the Sig, but this was one of those rare circumstances when carrying a gun seemed a reasonable thing to do. In fact, it seemed idiotic to meet kidnappers without it.
I told Tattoo, “I’ve got nothing on me you need to worry about. I don’t suppose you’d just take my word for that. Save us all some time.”
Tattoo said, “There you go again. Acting like I’m dumb.”
EIGHT
Outside the federal building, after being cleared by security, Tattoo left us for ten minutes. When he came back, he said, “My people say you’re supposed to go pick up the package. They want me with you. So that’s the way we’ll work it. Any complaints?”
Pilar asked, “Did they tell you what we’re picking up?”
“Nope. Don’t you go tellin’ me nothin’ ’bout it neither, pretty lady.”
We got the Ford Taurus from the parking garage. Tattoo took the passenger seat. The car creaked beneath his weight, listing noticeably to starboard. Without asking, he changed the radio station to Willie Nelson, and then Tim McGraw, Cat Country Radio, 107 FM, radiating out from across central Florida.
I took Eighth Street through Little Havana-coffee shop bodegas, men smoking cigars over dominoes in Maximo Gomez Park-then turned south on LeJeune into Coral Gables.
The Masaguan and Guatemalan consulates were in adjoining buildings, both identified by ornate wall tiles, and next to Mitch Kaplan’s Books amp; Books. Before going inside with Pilar, I gave Tomlinson a warning look- Keep your mouth closed around this guy.
I sat leafing through a magazine in the waiting room once an aide, after greeting Pilar warmly, touched the keypad lock, opened a door, and guided her down a long hallway.
Twenty minutes later, she came out carrying a gray photographer’s equipment case that looked to be made of some kind of miracle resin, element-proof, but light.
“Is it all there?” I asked as we walked out onto the street.
Pilar told me, “It’s in fifties and hundreds. Can you believe a half-million dollars takes up so little space?”
Several steps later, sounding emotional, she added, “There was a note inside. Kahlil, my jeweler friend, he said he couldn’t get what he thought my stones were worth, so he added a little more than nineteen thousand dollars of his own money. How many people do you know who would do something so sweet and decent?”
“I’m paying half,” I reminded her.
She said it again: “That’s not necessary.”
The same tone.
Tattoo was getting his instructions from calls that he made from pay phones even though he had a Nokia cell phone clipped to his belt.
The cell phone rang often, playing some kind of show tune. Calliope music maybe, the sort I associate with merry-go-rounds-an odd choice for him. He answered occasionally, always after checking the caller I.D., but none of the calls seemed related to our business.
Once, driving on the East-West Expressway, I listened to him say, “Baby doll, you don’t talk nice to me, you ain’t gonna get no more a my good sugar. And I sure as hell ain’t gonna buy you no more play toys.”
Another time, I heard, “There’s a reason you need to visit your new lover boy. It’s ’cause where I live looks like the Florida you dreamed about before the first time you come down and saw what mosta this ol’ whore really looks like.”
That told me something. I made a mental note.
Three times we stopped at pay phones. Twice at 7-Elevens, once at a Walgreen’s. He’d drop in coins, say a few words, listen, then let the car settle beneath his weight before giving directions.
They had us drive across Biscayne Bay via MacArthur Causeway to A1A, Collins Avenue, onto South Beach, where Tattoo craned his neck at the girls in thong bikinis at Lummus Park.
He said, “Looky, looky, looky at all the nookie, nookie, nookie,” as I drove north in the slow traffic, bumper to bumper, patio restaurant tables full despite the heat, everyone outside to gawk and be seen in the postcard setting, 1950s hotels, pink flamingo Deco, palms, blue ocean, skaters, bikers, and joggers on sidewalks, oiled, silicon breasts on parade along with Porsches, Ferraris, Hummers.
Tattoo knew the area. He barked a steady flow of directions, but never all at once. Never offered a destination, or an explanation.
Once, when I asked, “I assume we’re going to meet someone,” he replied, “Don’t you go assumin’ nothin’, buster. I’m just doin’ what they’re tellin’ me to do. You’re gonna do the same.”
At the Howard Johnson’s north of Collins Park, he had me pull over and made another call. When he got back into the car, he checked his Rolex Submariner and said, “What you gonna do now is drive us back across the bay again. This time on the Tuttle Causeway, then we gonna take our time and drive north a piece.”
That’s when I realized what they were doing. And why.
I looked in the rearview mirror and caught Tomlinson’s eyes. They were bloodshot, watery blue-he’d gone to the Rum Bar late the night before, he’d told me, and gotten very drunk.
In his expression, though, I could see that he now understood as well.
The kidnappers were making us drive back and forth across Biscayne Bay for a purpose. There could only be one reason. Someone was almost certainly in a boat below, watching as we crossed. They were watching to see if cops in unmarked squad cars were keeping track of our movements, setting up a bust. Or to see if they were trailing us from above in a chopper.
Bridges are great isolators, perfect surveillance choke points. In city traffic, it can take three or four cars and a trained team to effectively tail someone. So they’d come up with an ingenious way to check us out, to see if we were double-crossing them.
It told me the people we were dealing with were professionals. I found that at once heartening and daunting. It meant they’d probably be businesslike in their dealings concerning Lake-something that didn’t mesh with the burn welt on my son’s arm. It also meant they probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill the boy if we somehow screwed up on our end.
As we crossed the Julia Tuttle Causeway, I saw several boats moving along the Intracoastal Waterway. I tried to take a fast mental snapshot, doing my best to remember individual boats.
One was a small white tri-hull outboard. It was idling in the distance, beam to the bridge, with what may have been block lettering on the side.
I associate such lettering with rental boats.
There looked to be one, possibly two people aboard, scrunched down behind the windshield.
I didn’t want to be obvious about staring. Plus, from that distance, and from a moving car, it was impossible to decipher details.