A Shark in Calle Ocho (9 page)

“We’re fine,” Hector shot back. “We drive in American rush hours every day.”

“Ah, yes. I have read about your rush hours,” Ayize said with head raised, thinking back. “Men getting mad and shooting other men because of their driving. How barbarian.”

“Yeah, and South Africa’s history is all peaceful,” Hector shot back.

Ayize’s hands turned into fist, and his jaw tightened, but he let the rage subside with a smile.

“As you Americans say, shall we get down to business?”

Mary Catherine took control of the conversation.

“Where is our product?”

With a raised eyebrow, Ayize gestured to her.

“Mary Catherine Tenish, millionaire business owner—and a woman. Isn’t America wonderful?” he said sarcastically. He ignored Mary Catherine and centered his attention on Hector and the associates. “We can begin loading your product as soon as I see the payment.”

Hector smiled and motioned to Mary Catherine to put the suitcase on the desk. She obeyed. From the disease of greed, Ayize’s eyes widened as he clutched the case.

He opened it and said, “Yes, nice.” He caressed the money. “Start loading,” he said to Berko.

A few men started loading the precious cargo in the truck. Hector stopped them, picked out a box and ordered them to open it. Inside he saw African ceremonial masks staring back at him. He picked one up, examining the large eyes with white circles around them. The mouth was open grotesquely and rounded at the corners. The blond straw hair was sticking straight up.

“This is an African fertilization mask, although it is quite more valuable than the ones you find on the streets,” Ayize said, walking up beside Hector and turning it over to reveal a brown plastic package. Ayize took and opened the package into the open hands of Hector. The diamonds’ allure put Hector into a wide-eyed trance. “Many people have lost their lands hunting these sparkling rocks.” Ayize’s remark broke the trance.

“Maybe not today,” Hector said, putting the diamonds back into the case with the mask. “Let’s go. You staying here or coming with us, woman?”

Mary Catherine did not answer the Latino—she just walked past him and got into the truck.

“Berko will take you back to the airport,” Ayize said, holding on to the suitcase. “Have a safe trip.” Neither Hector nor the associates responded. All were very suspicious of the unfamiliar surroundings and their chauffeur.

Back on the bumpy road, Berko gave the travelers a history lesson.

“Port Nolloth was built from the copper mines. We are a very strong and proud people who live in this land. We are survivors. When the copper and ore began to run out the gods smiled down upon us and gave us these wonderful diamonds. My people are now wealthier than they have ever been.” He paused, gave Mary Catherine and Hector a long stare and added, “If they play their cards right.”

“Do you have a good hand?” Mary Catherine asked.

“Oh, yes—a very good hand,” Berko said, setting off alarms in Mary Catherine’s mind.

Berko swerved to miss a silver 2008 BMW 3 Series sedan. As it passed, Mary Catherine strained to see inside the dark tinted windows and spotted two other silver BMWs speeding toward them. She turned to Hector in the back seat, but before she could get a word out, Berko slammed on the brake and turned the wheel sharply, sending the passengers flying. Mary Catherine received the worst of it, slamming her head into the windshield and knocking her unconscious.

Berko ripped out a semiautomatic and screamed to Hector and his men, “Get out of the truck. You will die. Get out of the truck. You will die.” They had no choice but to follow the deadly directions. Hector cursed under his breath. His men, hardened by drug wars, kept their cool. Hector motioned to wait for the right moment. Seeing Ayize and his subordinates getting out of the cars, Berko jumped out of the truck and started pushing the men.

“Throw your guns down on the ground,” Ayize commanded, spitting in Hector’s face. “You Americans with your Hollywood movies and your flashy women think you can come into our country and take whatever you want.”

As if he were a drill sergeant conducting an inspection, he barked, “Who do you think you are? The cavalry?” His eight henchmen roared with laughter, and some fired their weapons in the air. On a roll before his captive audience, Ayize returned to Hector and added, “You are looking at a real cowboy. What is my name?” He put his Uzi to his head and thought. “Billy the Kid,” he proclaimed, putting the Uzi to Hector’s head now. “Yeah, that’s right! I’m Billy the Kid!” As he started to strut, he was startled by an interruption.

“Where’s your hat then?” Mary Catherine said, gingerly getting out of the truck with Berko’s semiautomatic in hand.

Berko cursed, and Ayize seemed to deflate. But he quickly regained his composure.

“Woman, why don’t you come over here? You don’t want to shoot Ayize—you want to love him.”

Mary Catherine was a changed woman. Over the last month, life had hardened her. The death of her son, the Shark, the hopelessness . . . it seemed her life was pouring into a funnel and had just reached the end of the spout. She no longer felt sad or lonely for her son, nor did she feel any fear or emotion. Her goal was to get out of this godforsaken place alive, no matter what.

Like a robot, Mary Catherine squeezed the trigger. Everyone scattered except for a stunned Ayize, whose last thought was utter amazement. Never before had he seen such a strong woman. Two bullets hit his face and another the top of his forehead. He crashed to the ground, blood pooling on the dirt road. Hector and his men dove for their guns and rolled away, firing at the confused Africans. Mary Catherine, blood still pouring down her face from the cut she’d received when she hit the windshield, released a bloodcurdling scream as she turned in circles, all the while firing the gun. Four of Ayize’s men, including Berko, went down almost immediately. The other four, seeing they were now outmatched by the Americans, turned and ran to the cars.

Hector walked over to a squirming Berko, who was putting pressure on a stomach wound, and said, “You know what’s so bad about being Billy the Kid?” Berko said nothing about the remark of his dead associate. “Everyone’s out for your head.” He raised his gun and put him out of his misery with a shot to the left eye.

Hector looked at his associates, who were all staring at Mary Catherine. There she was, her blood-soaked gray hair over her face. Her business dress torn and muddy. She was hunched over, mouth agape, the gun in her hand hanging loosely by her side.

She looked at Hector with an intensity rivaling even Shark’s and said, “Let’s go.”

“You heard her,” Hector said, getting everyone into the truck and checking on the cargo. “Hurry up. They will be coming back with more men shortly.”

Hector jumped into the driver’s seat, put the truck in gear and sped down the road to the safety of the airport. “I’m sorry for what I said on the plane,” he said with renewed respect.

“Just get me to my damn plane,” she responded, not bothering to look at him.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said like an obedient son.

***

Several blocks from the police station, Bob was still fuming over another embarrassing episode.

“I just don’t understand why I can’t get through to those guys,” Bob muttered to himself and the beauty queen as he pulled up to a stoplight. “I know I shouldn’t have said I was from the
Herald
. I should have just told them where I was from. I should have told them the truth.”

The light turned to green, and Bob pressed the accelerator. The queen backfired and lurched forward.

“Hey, girl—easy does it. I promise I’ll tell the truth from now on,” he said through a smile and waved to the laughing women in the Mustang convertible beside him. It was bright yellow with glowing blue lights on the bottom, and loud techno music was blaring from the speakers. They waved back and left Bob and the queen in their dust.

“Don’t worry—that Mustang doesn’t have near the character you have,” Bob said, patting the faded brown dashboard.

Bob had one hand on the steering wheel, and the other was propping up his head. Exhausted and frustrated, the road was putting him into a trance. He was abruptly yanked from the trance by lights in his rearview mirror, and they were quickly gaining on him. He thought this strange because it was late, and hardly anyone was on the road.

“They seem to be in a hurry,” he said to himself. The lights kept coming until they were just a few feet from his bumper. “Okay—this is a four lane. You can pass me.” But the car did not pass him. The driver sped up and gave the queen a hard bump that shifted her back end. Bob cursed.

Officer Tim Emerson, who’d told Bob to come back in the morning, had called Shark to tell him about the
Herald
reporter who was really a bounty hunter-slash-investigator. Tim could hear the seriousness in Shark’s voice when he spoke, and he assured Tim that he’d take care of it. During the conversation, Tim told Shark what Bob drove and the location of his office. He got this information from the homemade business card Bob had left at the desk.

Bob nearly lost control as he was rammed again. He suddenly heard loud popping noises, and the queen’s driver side mirror exploded, spraying glass shrapnel inside the car and down its side.

“Oh, jeez,” Bob shouted, ducking after the fact. He put the accelerator to the floor, and the engine came alive. The two sped down the road. There were more popping noises as flashes of light come from behind, and the rear window exploded, sending more glass into the car and hitting Bob in the back of his head and neck. The queen was swerving on the road, and the car behind came in for the kill, smashing into the back and nearly climbing over the trunk. With the queen now in a full spin, Bob lost complete control. As it spun, its tires screeched, and the tire on the front left came off the rim. It slid into a palm tree, demolishing the right headlight before settling in the grass. When it hit the palm, Bob hit his temple on the doorframe and was knocked almost unconscious. The other car stopped in front of the queen, which now had steam and smoke coming from under her hood.

Bob heard a door open and slam. The thought of escape went through his mind, but he couldn’t make his body cooperate. It was as if he was in a horrible nightmare and couldn’t wake up.

“Come here,” a voice said through the blur. The voice had a heavy Boston ascent, and it came from a large mass that seem to block the light from the other car. The queen’s door opened, and Bob was caught by his hair before he tumbled to the ground.

Bob could now see the face where the voice was coming from. Its features were sharp. It had black eyes with crow’s feet on the corners and a scar underneath the left one. Its lips were thin and had a permanent snarl to them.

“Shark doesn’t like anybody snooping around his business—especially no wannabe bounty hunter,” the henchman said, still holding on to Bob’s hair. With every word, he would give Bob a vigorous shake, which made Bob feel sick to his stomach and made it hard for him to regain full consciousness.

“This is your only warning,” the man went on. “If you continue to play investigator, bounty hunter, whatever, I’ll hurt you so bad you’ll wish you were dead. Do you hear me?”

“Wish I was dead. Got it,” Bob mumbled.

“Good.” The goon let go. Bob’s head fell to the ground, and the henchman put a boot into his stomach. Bob curled into a fetal position, and tears started rolling down his cheeks. “Poor baby,” the thug said. “Do yourself a favor. Go back to your old job of bagging groceries. You’re too soft. You’re going to get yourself killed. You stupid little punk, you gonna take my advice?” He kicked Bob again, then walked away and drove off.

As Bob lay there in a heap of busted, bleeding flesh, he managed to say one word before blacking out: “No.”

Chapter Nine

It was almost morning when Bob came to and made his way back to the queen. He wearily turned the ignition, and miraculously the engine turned over. He breathed a sigh of relief and began to pluck bits of grass from his clothes. He was dirty, bruised and bleeding, and he wasn’t looking forward to changing the queen’s tire. Finally he and the queen limped home, where he showered and tried to get some rest. He checked himself over in his bathroom mirror and saw a large purple lump forming on the side of his head. One of his eyes was cut and swollen. It too was turning purple.

“I shouldn’t have looked at myself,” he grumbled. “Now I feel worse.”

It was the afternoon when Bob managed to walked out of his apartment and inspect the damage to the beauty queen. “Ouch,” was his reaction. The right front fender was dragging the ground, and the right front was crumpled like a wad of paper. From there, deep scrapes ran all the way down the car. The back window and both side mirrors were missing.

“I’m sorry, girl. I’ll get you a face-lift after this mess is over. I promise,” he said, patting his beloved queen as he climbed into the driver seat again.

Like two wounded warriors coming home from battle, the queen and Bob pulled into his office parking lot. Miss Garza spotted Bob and his wrecked car from her window.

“Oh dear Lord,” she screamed, clutching her bosom. She ran out of her door and down the hall to meet Bob at the front entrance.

Still clutching her bosom, she said, “I knew it. I knew it.
Senor bendiga a este nino.
I knew it. Bob, you were chasing all those people on drugs, and look what has happened to you.” She was nearly in tears.

“Miss Garza, I’m fine—just a little fender bender, that’s all,” Bob said, not wanting a bear hug with his tender ribs. “I’ll be fine. I just need to sit down in my office and do some paperwork.”

“No, no—let me warm some soup for you,” she said, blocking the entrance.

“Please, Miss Garza—I need to sit down,” Bob said, pausing. “In my office.”

She saw he was getting pale.

Worried, she said, “Okay, baby. I’ll check on you in a while.” He walked past her, and she shook her head and mumbled, “Drugs. They ruin so many lives.”

Bob gingerly sat down behind his desk. Before anything else, he had some phone calls to make.