High Lie Page 2

Lucas and I had left Desi in my house with food and water and directions to get some more sleep. I told him we would be back in a couple of hours, and I felt a little bad that I didn’t own a television for him to watch. He hadn’t given us anything new to work with, other than repeating the descriptions of the two big guys.

  The descriptions sure matched the two lugnuts we stood in front of now. They were pale and bloated and wore the red eyes of a hangover. We crept along the second-to-last row and stood between them and the jai alai. It served its purpose and caught their attention.

  “If you wanna black eye, you just stay right where you ah,” said Baldy, in a thick Boston accent. That explained the sickly skin tone. Boston Irish didn’t tan in the sun; they just turned the color of their beloved lobsters.

  “I hear you boys are the ones to speak to about a little action,” said Lucas, and for the first time I noticed how similar his accent was to that of the Bostonians. Maybe there were a lot of Irishmen in Australia, too. I had no idea.

  “What action?” asked Baldy.

  Lucas nodded toward the game, which had resumed with the echoes of the ball cracking off the walls.

  “Jai alai,” said Lucas.

  “High lie?” said Redhead. “You mean the jay a-lay.”

  “It’s generally pronounced high lie,” I said.

  Redhead shot me the same glance I bet he’d given every teacher since kindergarten, then looked back at the court. “Get lost,” he said.

  “Sorry, Blue,” said Lucas. “My mistake. I guess you aren’t the movers and shakers we heard about.”

  “You can lay bets in the casino,” said Baldy.

  “Yeah, that’s not our kind of action,” said Lucas.

  “Or our kind of credit,” I added.

  Redhead eyed us both in turn.

  “You guys cops?”

  I was a former professional baseball player turned PI, and Lucas managed the high-end marina in Miami Beach, before which he had been in some kind of special forces doing who knew what for various governments and agencies. We might have had cop-like backgrounds, but we looked like a couple of past-their-prime beach bums searching for one last wave.

  “No,” I said. “We’re not cops.”

  Redhead leaned back in his chair. “We had to ask, you know. Just in case you was wearing a wah.”

  A wire, indeed. I nodded and smiled as if it was a genius move, and Redhead clearly had every base covered. But the smile wasn’t for his genius. It always amused me when these morons got their experience from TV. In real life, undercover cops were permitted to lie their asses off. Getting a cop to lie about being a cop wasn’t grounds for anything, entrapment or otherwise. The concept of being undercover really didn’t work if they could be found out by having to fess up the truth. Oh, you got me, I am a cop.

  Redhead was evidently satisfied with his genius, however, because he stood slowly, trying to keep his head level. “Let’s talk outside.”

  Both of the Irishmen put on shades to shield them from the midday sun. They bobbled when they walked, and I noted they both had thighs that would have done a Tour de France rider proud. But their muscled legs made it hard to walk, so I wondered what the objective was. They led us behind the main building, so the jai alai court was through the cinder block wall by us. On the other side was a mass of hedge and mangrove, and we could hear the roar of the freeway beyond.

  “So how does this work, Blue? You take bets right outside the building?” said Lucas.

  Redhead frowned at him as if he was learning the language. “No. We talk terms. If we like what we hear, we make a call.”

  Lucas nodded. “So what can you offer?”

  “What you wanna borrow?” said Redhead.

  “Five hundred,” I said.

  The two lugnuts traded glances like we’d made an offer to buy the Miami Heat.

  “All right. The vig’s ten percent a week. You’ll get the odds from the bookie,” said Redhead, tightening his cheek muscles in an attempt at a smile.

  It was clear from the venue that we were not dealing in high-roller stakes, but I still couldn’t get my head around the fact these guys were excited about a payoff that amounted to fifty bucks a week. It all seemed so small time, especially to warrant dumping a boy in the ocean. I nodded at Lucas.

  “So, are they the same terms you offered our friend?” said Lucas.

  “I guess,” said Redhead. “Who’s your friend?”

  “His name is Desi,” I said. “He’s an eleven-year-old kid.”

  The two guys tightened their stance and set their jaws.

  “Who the hell are you guys?”

  “He said he owed you guys two hundred,” said Lucas. “But he owed us some money, too. He said he had four hundred and was bringing our dough over. Thing is, he never made it.”

  “Got nothing to do with us,” said Baldy.

  “Maybe not,” said Lucas, shrugging. He did everything with an economy of movement that was common in South Florida. Even his speech was relaxed. He was the personification of what physicists called potential energy. So when he exploded into action it surprised no one more than me. In a blur of legs and fists the two big guys went to ground covered in their own blood, before I could even comprehend what was happening. It was like trying to keep my eyes on a hockey puck.

  Baldy covered his nose, trying to stem the blood flow, while his hair-endowed buddy was more concerned with the kick that had sent his crown jewels into his stomach.

  “You knuckleheads have no shame, taking money from a little boy.” Lucas got down and took Baldy’s wallet from his hip pocket. He rifled through it and counted the cash. “One forty. You better hope Blue here has the rest.”

  Redhead spat through gritted teeth. “Why you keep calling me Blue?”

  Lucas frowned as if the question required no explanation. “Because you’re a bloodnut, a redhead. Why do you think?”

  Lucas grabbed Redhead’s wallet and fanned it open to me. It was thick with cash—mostly tens and twenties. Lucas counted out until he reached four hundred total, then he threw the wallet on the ground.

  “You maggots are dead meat, you understand?” yelled Redhead.

  Lucas stood and nodded. “Old Father Time gets us all in the end.”

  Then he drove his boot into Redhead’s face, diverting his attention. Lucas turned to Baldy, who whimpered and coiled up in the fetal position.

  “How’s the hangover?” said Lucas.

  Baldy moaned a response.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Lucas, ramming his heel into Baldy’s ribs with a crack. Lucas nodded his head to me, suggesting it was time to go, which I couldn’t have agreed with more. We strode away from the sounds of Baldy launching his breakfast onto the gravel, and headed for my SUV.

  We got back to my house on Singer Island feeling good. Perhaps those goons would think twice or even three times before hurting a kid again. I opened the front door and glanced at the sofa. The blanket was at one end, the pillow at the other. The ham sandwich had disappeared from the plate, as had the water in the now empty glass. I looked around the living room, then turned to the sound of the patio door sliding open. Danielle came inside, her face contorted with concern.

  “Where’s Desi?” she said.

  “He’s not here?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “He’s gone.”

  Chapter Three

  I HADN’T PLANNED on visiting West Palm Jai Alai ever again, let alone within the hour. To say Danielle wasn’t happy about us leaving Desi alone was an understatement. She was in no way placated by me telling her we had gotten his money back, any more than she was by Lucas pulling the cash from his pocket and showing it to her. She called us irresponsible and foolish, which I thought was a touch harsh, and demanded we go and find him.

  “How?” I said.

  “You’re a PI, you’ll figure it out,” she said, storming out the door. “I’m going to do a sweep of the island.”

  We left her to do that
and headed back from whence we had come. The parking lot was no more full, but the gravel behind the building was empty, save a dark patch of dried blood. We walked back in through the casino and into the jai alai court. There were four players on court now, and it appeared they were playing doubles. The other players waited on a bench near the end of the court. One of the players we had seen earlier—number twenty-five—glanced in our direction and made eye contact. He stared at me for a time, until I drew my eyes away and looked around the room.

  We decided on the soft approach; splitting up and making our way through the rows, asking each man if they knew Desi or had seen the boy. There were not many men watching, and it didn’t take long to reconvene on the opposite side of the seating area.

  “Nothing,” said Lucas.

  “No one saw anything, ever,” I replied.

  We watched the jai alai match conclude anticlimactically with a ball that dribbled away. With much greater volume than was necessary, the announcer called the winners, and their names were displayed on the board. It seemed the day’s games were over as the crowd—such as it was—shuffled out of the auditorium. The players gathered their equipment and milled about, except number twenty-five. He seemed to be keeping his eyes on us. He turned and chatted to some of his colleagues, who nodded and walked away, I guessed toward the locker room. Number twenty-five collected his things and headed our way.

  Lucas and I watched him walk over as a janitor wandered into the bright lights of the court with a mop. Twenty-five had dark features and his sweat-soaked red shirt reaffirmed my thought that he looked like a polo player who had lost his mount. As he reached us I noted that the muscles on his right arm looked much stronger than his left, giving his body an asymmetrical look.

  “I know you,” he said to me, with a Cuban accent.

  “I don’t recall,” I said.

  “No,” he shook his head. “We have never met. But I know you. I saw you play baseball. You are the Miami Jones.”

  It always caught me by surprise when people remembered me from my playing days. It had been a good few years since I had hung up the cleats, and even at my peak I’d never made it onto a card in a pack of gum.

  “That so? In Port St Lucie?”

  “No, you played for the Mets at Roger Dean Stadium. Against the Cardinals. You pitch good. But you lost.”

  “Yeah, Palm Beach had a good team that year. They won the league. Mister, that was almost ten years ago. You have a darn good memory.”

  “Si, I remember. We sit on the away-team side, and you signed a ball for my son.”

  I nodded. I remembered as a player, training, playing, coming off the field exhausted, getting ready for a shower and a bus ride or flight somewhere, often thinking that the last thing I wanted to do was sign autographs. But I always did, even after a loss, because somewhere in the back of my brain I remembered the ball that I had been given, at the one solitary baseball game my father had taken me to. I couldn’t remember the player, and I no longer had the ball, but I never shook the special feeling that I’d had when a real-life baseball player handed me the signed ball, winked and ruffled my hair with his sweaty, clay-stained hand.

  I stuck my hand out. “Miami Jones.”

  He shook my hand with an open smile. “Diego Alvarez. They call me Julio.”

  That didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but I had some experience with being called something that wasn’t the name my mama gave me, so I went with it.

  “Okay. Nice to meet you, Julio. This is Lucas.”

  The two men exchanged handshakes and Julio returned his gaze to me.

  “What brings you to the jai alai, Señor Miami?”

  “We’re looking for a boy. A Cuban boy; goes by the name of Desi.”

  Julio nodded and thought for a moment. “I am not sure.”

  “He was placing bets with the two Irish-looking hombres who sit up in the back.”

  “Those are not good men, señor.”

  “No, they are not. And now an eleven-year-old boy is missing.”

  “Such a small boy, I thought you meant older,” said Julio. “This smaller boy, yes, I think I have seen him.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I do not know this boy. He is not in my community. Perhaps he is a recent arrival.”

  “Recent arrival? He spoke English pretty well.”

  “Si, sometimes the children know some English, that is why they come first. On the boats from Havana. They are small and take up less room, so they can fit more on each boat, you see?”

  “Yes, I see.” I had heard about the boats from Cuba. Hell, I’d seen them on TV, crossing over to Miami, looking for asylum. Even after the US had re-established political ties with Havana, the tide hadn’t stemmed. In some areas it was worse. As often as not the boats, which were closer to thatched rafts, didn’t make it. Those who got to US soil usually got to stay.

  “I thought most Cuban refugees stayed in Miami?” I said.

  “Si, they do. But we have been in Florida many years, and we have spread out. If the boy perhaps has some family here in West Palm, he may have been taken in.”

  “You don’t have any idea where?” Lucas asked.

  Julio shrugged. “As I say, he is not in my community. But sometimes the new arrivals, they have not so much money. We try to help them, through the church. Some of them live in the trailer park. Los Piños. Out near the turnpike. You know it?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Julio, I think I do.” I looked at Lucas and he nodded at me, then I turned back to Julio. “Thank you, Julio, you have been a great help.”

  “You are welcome, señor. I hope the boy is all right. And now I have a question of you.”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “You are private investigator now, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Julio nodded and frowned. “I have need of a private investigator.”

  “What do you need a private investigator for, Julio?”

  “Señor, someone is trying to kill me.”

  Chapter Four

  JULIO TOLD US that his little problem of someone wanting him dead also concerned the rest of his jai alai buddies, so we agreed to meet the group after the players had showered and changed. Lucas and I used the interval to check out his tip about Desi’s location.

  Los Piños, or the The Pines, was the kind of trailer park that gave trailer parks their bad reputation. Stuck out near the turnpike off Southern Boulevard, the grounds were a patchwork of mismatched grasses, not so much in need of mowing as napalm, and not a pine tree in sight. I had always hypothesized that if gardeners were to go on strike in South Florida it would only take a few weeks for the greenery to take over again, and Los Piños was exhibit A in support of my case. Even after the drab casino, Los Piños was a depressing place to be.

  The trailers were exclusively single-wide and almost all in need of repair. A decent hurricane was going to lift this whole place up and dump it back in Cuba, at a human cost I didn’t want to consider.

  Small children poked their heads out from behind rusted trailers and cracked plastic furniture as we drove slowly around the park, getting our bearings. The whole place smelled of desperation, the fruition of a lie, a tale spun by seedy men in alleyways in Havana, a tale of freedom and opportunity in the great US of A. And for those that survived the crossing and ended up in Los Piños, not so much fulfillment of a dream as more of the same. We cruised a lap of the place without a plan, then slowed near the main entry.

  “What do you think, chief?” said Lucas.

  “When in doubt, start where you are. The nosiest people in any trailer park live near the entrance.”

  Lucas nodded, and I parked, and we headed out. We didn’t anticipate too many invitations for coffee and cookies. As it was, the first three doors didn’t open at all. Just because these were the cheapest accommodations going around didn’t mean these folks weren’t out looking for work. Or doing it. The hard, unpleasant stuff that those of us lucky enough to
be delivered on American soil sure didn’t want to do.

  The fourth door opened. Close enough to the main entrance to keep an eye on all comings and goings, but far enough away to not get woken by the traffic. An old woman in a house dress opened the door as we walked up the split concrete pathway beside her ancient trailer. This thing looked like it had been on its last legs when JFK ascended the throne, and had been mended with corrugated iron and sheets of aluminum, a patchwork quilt of metals. The woman didn’t speak but eyed us with suspicion, despite our best smiles. Lucas spoke better Spanish than me, so he took the lead.

  “Señora, we are looking for Desi. Do you know Desi?”

  The woman frowned and rolled her eyes mumbling something to herself, something that sounded less than complimentary to us.

  “There are eight Desis live here. Every Cubano who wants to come to America calls their boy Desi and their girl Lucy.”

  I thought of Desi Arnez Jr., the musician husband of Lucille Ball, from the black-and-white shows my mother so loved when I was a kid in Connecticut. I wondered if that was what the refugees expected to find here, a chance to relive Havana’s glory days in the Palm Beaches.

  “This Desi is a boy,” said Lucas. “Eleven years old.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. I couldn’t imagine that two scruffy blond guys looking for a small boy was a good look to anyone, let alone a nosy old Cuban woman in a trailer park.

  “He lost some money,” I said, hoping I had gotten the syntax right. “We have it and want to return it to him.”

  The woman’s face didn’t relax one iota, but she grunted, Dinero?, and we nodded, at which she put her palm up, instructing us to stay put, then she slammed the door of her trailer shut. The whole thing rocked on its foundations and continued to wobble as the woman moved about inside. The door flung open again and the woman stepped gingerly down the concrete steps. She had removed the housedress—like a full body apron—leaving her regular dress, a floral print the color of the Caribbean Sea. She waved her hand like a tour guide and we followed her along two streets, then down one. We got to a peach-colored trailer with a throng of bicycles chained up under a tarp shade, and she signaled for us to wait on the sidewalk. The woman then went to the door, knocked, and spoke to a man in a white tank top. The man listened, looked at us, then frowned, listened more, then frowned deeper. The old woman stepped back and the man came down from his trailer and grabbed a shirt that hung on one of the bicycles. It looked like a bowling shirt from another age, black with white diamonds. The man buttoned it as he walked toward us. I noticed a series of other heads pop out from the door of the trailer, checking out the yumas.