A Shark in Calle Ocho (3 page)

He walked from the bus stop a block away from the lot. Fifteen feet from the lot he was met by an older man wearing a toupee. He had to be at least six-five and couldn’t weigh over 120 pounds, so to say he was skinny was an understatement. Acne scars covered his leathery face. His long sleeves were two inches too short, and his cargo shorts hit his knees. Flip flops were his shoes, while a large golden watch seemed to weigh down his right arm. His most prominent attire was his huge white ten-gallon hat. It looked like a giant killer mushroom from an ancient Sci-Fi movie that was trying to swallow his head.

“Howdy, partner!” the salesman said through his smile, letting the howdy drag on. “Welcome to Cowboy Bill’s Used Quality Car Lot! What can I do you fer’ today!”

Oh, is this wise,
thought Bob. He stopped himself.
Wait—that’s the old Bob, and the old Bob is no longer. The new Bob needs a ride to cruise in.

“I want that Impala over there,” he said, pointing to the beauty queen.

“Great,” the cowboy said. “She’s a beauty. A real classic! Did I mention we have in-house financing! You can drive today for $5,000!”

“No need—I’ll pay cash,” Bob said, sending the cowboy into a state of pure ecstasy. The old Bob was screaming in his head not to ravage his checking account. The screaming faded as the two shook hands and headed to the small trailer-turned-office to sign on the dotted line.

When Bob finally sat in the driver’s seat, he found it lumpy under his bottom. He put the keys in the ignition. Maybe he should have taken it for a test drive before buying it. He shook his head.
Enough, old Bob—let’s drive!

He turned the key, and the engine turned over, backfired, and roared to life. He pressed the brake with his foot and shifted the chrome lever to drive. Bob was cruising.

The windows were rolled down, and the wind was in his hair. He noticed his radio was silent, but he could fix that. He turned the ancient knob. There was nothing digital about this car—including the radio. Bob scanned the channels, not with a button but the good ole reliable dial. The only problem was, the good ole reliable dial picked up only a Spanish station. This didn’t hamper Bob’s cheery day. Bob turned the speakers as loud as they would go. The speakers crackled, but he could hear the lyrics, and with his elbow out the window and hair blowing in the wind, he was free and headed to Carnival.

Bob parked blocks from Carnival festivities, but the people dotted the sidewalks and gathered outside small bars. Sounds filled the air—music with Latin origins, the laughter of conversations—and the sight of so many different people, and the feeling of the warm setting sun was almost a sensory overload. Before he noticed, he was almost in a fast trot to the main festivities just a few blocks away. He was starving for fun.

Finally the parade seemed to appear and swarm his small universe, opening a sense of freedom this accountant had never experienced before. Just for a moment, the old Bob tried to emerge and tell him to go, run back to his secure life of numbers and routine. But the spirit of Carnival swept accountant Bob away in a tidal wave of emotion, never to appear again. Bob joined the revelers, and for the first time in his life he raised his head and shouted. It was drowned by the immense noise of thousands of other revelers, but it was still a shout—a shout of freedom. For the first time, with arms upraised, Bob danced. He danced until he sweated. He danced close to people. He laughed and mingled with others. He danced so close he could smell others. He could hear them breathing; he could feel their spirits. Did he care? Of course not. This is the new, free Bob. And to prove his freedom, he roared and danced some more.

One Month Later

Bob’s new life was wonderful. His life consisted of lunch at El Pescador eating shrimp tortillas and fish
croquetas
, strolls around Domino Park—and of course cruising on the strip. But cruising didn’t make money, and eating at El Pescador shrank a bank account. Bob needed a job. His first thought was to find another accounting firm, but he quickly dismissed that idea. No accounting, no numbers. That was not exciting. The daily numbers would kill his adventure. Bob plopped down on his couch. He reached over and grabbed a two-day-old bottle of Corona and flipped on the TV. He was soon asleep.

Bob woke to a commercial. The image was of a handsome guy in front of a sports car.

“It’s time for a new career for you, and your future is at the University Tech School!”

Bob sat up, spilling the last of the Corona on his shorts, and listened.

“We offer many classes, and all of them will send you down the path to success! Some classes we offer are . . .” The narrator started reading off the list. Bob started nodding off again until one course title seemed to leap off the television screen—bounty hunting.

Bob immediately dusted off the Cheetos, kicked the empty bottle and grabbed the phone. He dialed the number and ordered the class from another faceless voice. He was on his way to being Bob the Bounty Hunter.

“Oh yeah—I’m a stud,” he proclaimed.

In just ninety days, Bob was a bounty hunter
and
a private investigator, and he had a diploma to prove it—it has just arrived in the mail.

He plopped down on the couch and asked himself, “Now what?”

“I guess I’ll start looking for a job,” he said to his pet iguana. He’d bought it a few days before as part of his transformation. The lizard stayed in an old fish tank on the kitchen table, sunning itself under the lamp. When Bob mentioned a job, it looked up and flicked its tongue several times. Bob named it Pedro—Pedro, the Latin Lizard.

“Hi, my name is Bob,” he said with an outstretched hand. Larry Nema showed no emotion, nor did he show any interest in shaking Bob’s hand.

“Let me see your résumé,” Larry said. He gave a quick look at the résumé and laughed. “Uh, how can I say this? Bob, I’m going to be honest—”

“Oh, God. Here we go again,” Bob said.

“You were once an accountant. A few months ago,” Larry said, summarizing what he read in the résumé while talking to himself. “You quit, and then you studied to be a bounty hunter, and now you want to work for me at A-1 Bail Bounds.” He looked up. “So you went from an accountant to a bounty hunter?”

“Yes,” Bob said simply.

“Dude, I just can’t,” Larry said, suppressing a laugh. “Look at you. You’re little and soft. You don’t have experience. Have you ever shot a gun?”

Bob looked Larry over. He saw a man in a black T-shirt stretched tight by a barrel chest, huge tattooed arms, and wide shoulders and back. His bald head was perfectly round, and his face went to a point at his chin that was covered by hair. Larry was not soft, nor was he inexperienced.

Bob’s free spirit sank into his lower regions and was nearly enslaved by the bondage of the accountant until an idea popped in his head. He leaped from his chair, startling Larry. He stuck his hand in front of Larry’s face, giving him no option but to shake it.

“Thanks for your time, Larry, and your opinion.” He turned and nearly bounded to the door. He had a plan, and nothing was going to stop him.

As he walked down the sidewalk admiring the palms and other walkers, it all started to make sense now. He would be the perfect bounty hunter.

“Look at me,” Bob exclaimed to a stranger wearing pink shorts and white socks walking beside him. It startled the old man so much that he quickly jaywalked across the street.

“Look at me,” Bob said to himself, looking toward the sky, shaking his head. “I’m perfect to be a bounty hunter. I’m soft and inexperienced, just like Larry said. I blend in with everybody. Nobody would ever expect me to be a bounty hunter. I could just sneak up on the bad guy and wham!” Bob was talking to himself rather loudly, and when “wham” came out of his mouth his fellow pedestrians gave him more space. He didn’t notice.

“If no one wants to hire me, I’ll start my own bounty hunter service,” he said triumphantly.

Chapter Three

Officer Frederick Tenish loved being a policeman. The six-foot, tanned, blond officer looked like he belonged on the beach as a lifeguard or in the movies rather than in uniform in a patrol car. His heart was always in the streets, helping the residents of the neighborhoods he patrolled. From when he was a small child to when he graduated top of his class from the police academy, his dream was to be a Miami cop.

Frederick would have been just another cop who loved his job if it hadn’t been for one fact about his life. “Officer Fred,” as the local children called him, was heir to a multimillion dollar company called Tenish Packaging, which specialized in receiving merchandise in bulk and packaging and shipping throughout the United States and around the world. He never showed any interest in ever becoming the CEO, and this drove his mother, Mary Catherine Tenish, insane. She called his career “crazy silly” and kept reminding Frederick the position he’d have to assume one day.

Officer Fred was taking a break, watching an approaching thunderstorm. The clouds towered over the horizon. They looked like slow-moving mountains whose peaks seemed to scrape against the sky. They were full of energy and almost rhythmically lit their innards with streaks of lightening.

“She’s a Brick House” broke Frederick’s concentration. It was a ring on his cell phone, a very specific ring. He rolled his eyes and shook his head because he knew who it was: his mother. If Mary Catherine knew the ring tone Frederick had chosen for her, she would, as the neighborhood children might say, “Flip out.”

“Hello, Mother,” Frederick said, readying himself for the barrage of questions.

“How are you doing tonight?” she said, looking at her nails with eyes upraised. “Caught any bad guys?”

“No, Mother.” He understood that his mother did love him, and that this was a way of checking up on him.

“Frederick, this is a crazy, silly idea. Why don’t you come to the Tenish Building tomorrow and check out what’s going on? The Canadian Division is doing great, but we are still having trouble with the West Coast. We really do need you.”

“Now, Mother—I think after all these years you can handle it,” he said, looking in his visor mirror and moving his hands through his hair.

“I’m not going to be around forever, and I just hate to think what will happen to our business, which your father and I worked so hard to build.” Frederick closed his eyes and shook his head.
Now she’s trying to use guilt.

“You’re tough as shoe leather, Mother,” he countered. “You’re going to outlast us all.”

“Oh, now you’re making me out to be some female version of John Wayne.”

“No, I’m not, Mother. John Wayne was only seventy-two when he died,” he said, laughing and imagining her rolling her eyes as she listened to him.

Mary Catherine Tenish was an elegant woman in her early seventies. She had perfect posture and always dressed in what she called, “business elegance,” which was a dark colored business suit modestly fitting and buttoned. She wore nothing flashy, like large diamonds or furs. She did like pearls and would often wear them, but they had to be the right size, nothing too large of course. She had snow white hair cut short and curled. Her complexion was perfect and only had to be slightly “enhanced” by makeup. She never smoked but occasionally had one too many toddies before bed. In every way she was Mary Catherine Tenish, ruler of the empire called Tenish Packaging.

“I know you’re a busy young man, Frederick, but please make time for your mother and your future,” she added.

He laughed.

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“That’s fine, darling.”

“Goodbye, Mother.”

“Goodbye. Oh, by the way, be careful—it looks like a storm’s brewing,” he warned.

“Fine, I will.” She hung up.

Frederick was right on many levels. There
was
a storm brewing for Mary Catherine Tenish, and if she’d known she’d have taken cover right away.

***

Shark was proud that he and his henchmen had never been arrested by the “pigs” that called themselves police, DEA, or any other law enforcement agency.

One of his pet projects involved actually was receiving an award at 7:00 p.m. Care Ambulance Service was announced as this year’s winner of the Alfred D. something-something humanitarian award. Shark didn’t remember the name of the award, and it didn’t really matter. It was a great cover.

Care Ambulance Service was created in early 2001 by Calle Ocho Industries, of which Shark was the CEO. Care was actually listed as a non-profit, helping working class families who made too much money for government aid but couldn’t afford health insurance. Shark paid no money to start the company, thanks to government grants that were written by one of his staff members. Currently, Care Ambulance Service has ten units working twenty-four hours a day. They provide a full range of services to acute care facilities, sub-acute care facilities, skill nursing facilities and of course drug pushers. This made Shark smile, because not only was this an ambulance service but a component of a major drug smuggling racket.

Shark thought,
What a country.
The government that came up with all the laws against what he was doing was actually the same institution that was pouring money into one of his smuggling ventures. He laughed out loud at the thought. Matter of fact, as Shark was standing behind the podium reciting his speech, Care Ambulance was on the road helping the American people with their illnesses and their habits.

***

Jeremy Lifton wanted to help people while in college, and he was a thrill seeker. It made perfect sense to him to become an EMT. But after five years of battling in the trenches trying to save ungrateful people with pains in their chest from gas instead of their self diagnosed heart attack, he was ready to give in. Along with the long hours and low pay, he was on the verge of becoming a manager in the fast food industry until he met Shark.

Jeremy remembered like it was yesterday. He’d been talking to a friend, telling him about his problems. His friend had a coy smile on his face when he said he had a friend Jeremy had to meet. It was Shark. Jeremy knew better than to get mixed up with Shark, but the money was too good. It lured him like a seductive woman in the red-light district. Here he was on this rainy night in Miami, just another pickup and drop. His conscience didn’t bother him anymore. This was business. It was the addict’s own decision to take the dope. He was just a delivery person doing his job and making great money.