(c) 2020 Michael A. Babiarz
No part of this publication may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this work are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Advisory: this work contains explicit language and violent scenes which may not be suitable for younger or more sensitive readers.
The Graveyard Grifter is the third in a series of stories chronicling the adventures of Alexis Grant. You are welcome to enjoy each installment as released as our token to you. If you are interested in the predecessor stories, The Graveyard Gambit and The Graveyard Gamble, both can be purchased from Amazon, or if you drop me a line at ann@annbabiarz.com, I have some author-inscribed copies available in my office. Enjoy!
One
The low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance as Alexis Grant struggled with the key to her PO Box. A gust of wind tussled her shirt, providing a brief respite from the oppressive humidity. The afternoon storms are arriving early, she thought, as she jiggled the key up and down in the lock.
The entire community retrieved its mail from a centralized structure. The individual boxes were outdoors – not a problem in the central Bahamas as temperatures rarely dipped much below the mid-60s – and the large kiosk did have porticos over each side of the octagon shaped structure that provided some shelter from the frequent summer rains.
Alexis liberated her mail as the key finally reluctantly allowed her entry. She shuffled through several envelopes that were within her box. A large 9 x 12 pouch attracted her attention. This would be mail forwarded through a torturous pathway from her Florida-based address. Most of the missives were junk; one caught her eye: a window envelope from a company in Illinois named Superior Monument Enterprises.
Alexis tore open the correspondence, revealing the invoice within. As she expected, a bill for the care of her Aunt Evelyn’s grave marker was due.
“Why do I seem to spend so much of my life involved with graveyards,” she mumbled to herself.
She was startled by the slamming of a nearby letterbox. A heavyset man with the overly-tanned look of an ex-pat tugged his key from its slot, standing not 15 feet away from her. He stared intently at her for an uncomfortably long period of time, not uttering a sound, before he tucked his mail into his back pocket and slowly moved away.
Alexis felt a shiver down her spine, belying the brutal heat and humidity of the August Bahamian day. Dammit, Alexis, she thought to herself, stay aware of where you are and who is near you.
Studying the kiosk and its paved surround and satisfied that no one else was nearby, Alexis glanced at an envelope from Security Capital Trust of Nassau. This was no doubt a monthly statement from the asset protection trust that she had created from the remnants of the funds she took with her as she fled the US several years before. She inserted that envelope along with the rest of the mail into the larger pouch, using it as a convenient carrying case for the trip home.
She frowned as she noticed another business-sized envelope that had been forwarded from her stateside existence; it had somehow gotten partially stuck to the inside of the large forwarding package. The return address was clearly from a law firm in Illinois, the cheesy scale of justice logo next to the name announcing the fact. She hesitated for a moment, unsure as to whether to open it in such a public forum. Overcome by curiosity and a little bit of fear, she poked and ran her index finger along the edge.
Alexis slumped against the wall as she scanned the letter within: “How do they know this is me?”
Another roll of thunder, this time drawing nearer, answered her in the dimming light.
Two
George Vandenburg’s brow furrowed as he stared at the screen on his notebook. Writer’s block struck again. He pushed back his chair from the simple wicker table set within the modest lanai. Rising from his seat, he noticed his simple T-shirt already sticking to his back, damp with sweat. Although barely sunrise, the heat and humidity of the upcoming day was already there. Or perhaps it never left overnight due to the sultry Bahamian summer.
Maybe another hit of caffeine will get the creative juices flowing, he thought, plucking his depleted coffee mug off the table as he rolled back the sliding glass door and stepped into the kitchen. The coffee pot beckoned with several more available cups of Jamaican Blue Mountain, a potent brew.
As he entered the kitchen, in sauntered an amiable black lab, tail wagging, eyes brightened, no doubt due to the sounds of one of his human guardians rustling about in the area where the singular most important thing in life came from – food.
“Hello fella,” George said in reply to the obvious entreaty. “A little early for both of our breakfasts I’m afraid.”
The lab sat, eyes shifting back and forth between any activity on the counter and the face of George, much like a spectator at a tennis match. Patience was always a virtue in the canine community. But a little bit of encouragement never hurt, so 80 pounds of perseverance whimpered ever so slightly.
George frowned again as he noticed his cell phone on the counter. One missed notification. He saw that the caller ID for an incoming call from ten minutes ago was blocked. There was a voicemail. George touched his phone screen appropriately.
“Hey George, John McAllister here. Hope all is well with you. I need to speak to you and it’s kind of urgent. When you get this, give me a ring back as soon as you can. Thanks.”
The frown wasn’t leaving George’s face. John McAllister was George’s old friend who still worked for the FBI, where he’d climbed his way up the ladder during thirty years of service. Although George and John would sometimes chat socially, if McAllister called and said it was urgent, it was something George best not ignore. During his decades of work as a private investigator, George had a solid working relationship with McAllister that later blossomed into a friendship. Noting something was urgent meant this was definitely business, using a word that George hadn’t heard much since he stepped out of his flat foot shoes a couple years back.
Instead of dialing, George first tapped an app on his phone that allowed for encrypted communication. Entering a series of numbers preceded some amusical tones that ended with a pronounced click.
“Hi George.” John McAllister’s voice belied no emotion, with almost a flat affect typical of someone prescribed heavy antidepressants. But George knew that McAllister was dosed with years of training rather than pharmaceuticals.
“John. I got your message. Something’s urgent? What’s up?”
“News that’s sad and alarming. You remember Captain Rafael?”
George flashed back to months of sailing around the Caribbean with his newfound love Alexis Grant, an idyllic time despite the fact that she was trying to stay away from her late husband’s ‘business associates’. Rafael was the jovial pilot of the Santa Clara, the Cuban-flagged ship that had been arranged to keep Alexis safe and on the move.
“Sure. Good guy. Always cheerful, great seaman.”
“Yeah, but he’s not so cheerful now. The Collier County Sheriff responded to a call from a good old boy who was hunting Burmese python in the swamps and came across a dead body floating in about a foot and a half of water. It took a couple days but the decedent has been definitively tagged as Rafael.”
“Oh crap,” George exclaimed, feeling a tinge of sadness before he snapped back into PI mode. “What the hell happened?”
“Not pretty. The ultimate cause of death was a single gunshot through the side of his head. But it’s pretty clear it was inflicted upon him as whoever he came across did a lot of shit to him . . . Let’s just say it wasn’t a pretty sight. I guess even the local who found him bobbing around in the Yaguahatchee Strand lost his lunch when he saw him.”
“The Yagua-what?”
“It’s a European bastardization of some Calusa Indian words. Basically, it’s a kind of treed creek flowing through the swamp sending water towards the ocean.”
“Damn. Any theories?”
“From what we know about the victim,” McAllister quickly shifted into law enforcement mode, “we don’t suspect a drug deal gone bad or a boat captain trying to sneak Cuban dissidents into Florida.”
George rubbed his salt and pepper beard stubble for a moment, “no, Rafael was a pretty honest and straightforward guy. He had a decent gig going, where the regime allowed him to operate his ship without a lot of hassles. He seemed to be really good at walking the line between the world of capitalism and the world of communism. I have no doubt that there was some element of penny-ante corruption that allowed him to do what he did but I can’t see him getting involved in anything that reckless or foolish.”
“Agreed,” replied McAllister. “We have a different approach that we’re working with.”
“Can you share?”
“Yep. I pretty much have to,” said McAllister. “The Bureau suspects this is the work of what we now call the Chicago Group. You’d remember them as the Company.”
George felt a wave of panic sweep over him as he thought of Alexis, nearly a hundred miles away on an innocent errand to retrieve her mail. The Chicago Group was the retooled remnants of the organized crime syndicate to which John Grant, Alexis’ husband, who disappeared several years ago and was presumed rubbed out, had belonged.
“Sonofabitch. Alexis is off on an errand. I need to call her. Do we know whether this is directly connected to her and if so, how hot the trail is?”
“It’s hot George. Can we arrange a meeting sometime soon?”
“Well as you know, it can’t be in the states. Let me . . .”
McAllister interrupted: “I’m in Miami. Will Nassau work?
George was momentarily puzzled. Miami? McAllister was based in the Chicago area. “Couldn’t work better. When?”
George could hear the clicking of typewriter keys in the background as McAllister paused for a second and then continued: “tomorrow morning. I can contact you when I arrive and we’ll figure out a good place to hook up. I’ll need to speak with both of you.”
“Of course. We’ll see you then.”
George tapped the red bar on the bottom of his phone screen. He then pressed and held the numeral 1 on his phone.
George looked at the black lab still sitting sphinx-like and hopeful by his side. “Well boy, looks like you’re going to be needing a sitter for a day or two.”
A little glint of drool dropped from one sagging corner of the black lab’s mouth as he tipped his head to one side, ears alert, trying to catch a known word or two.
Three
A dark, evil pall was cast over Joey Rimensa’s eyes as he stared intently at his computer screen. He tipped his head to one side, gently massaging his chin. A crooked smile manifested itself as he clicked open an email attachment simply entitled: Alexis Grant.
“Well well,” he said to no one in particular. “It’s been years since that bitch’s name crossed my desk.”
Joey sat back in his chair, reminiscing about his last encounters with the late John Grant’s widow. Alexis Grant gave an evidence deposition to the feds in New Orleans and thereafter she was supposed to enter some type of witness protection program and disappear. But stupidly, thought Joey, she turned up instead at the gravesite of her Aunt Evelyn where Riley bungled his attempt to finish her off. She slipped away again. But her carelessness in coming up to the Chicago area and being seen and identified at St. John of the Cross Cemetery by Riley and the caretaker José, tainted her deposition. Although her testimony under oath was used to arrest me, thought Joey, after cooling my heels in that cell for several months, the Judge agreed that the evidence deposition could not be used in any trial. As Alexis was seen alive and in Illinois, the feds would have to produce her to testify in person. The prosecutors tried some lame reply about her being reported dead in the Bahamas but Attorney Rembrandt Williams – he’s a shrewd motherfucker, thought Joey – countered with affidavits from Riley and that graveyard caretaker Jose.
“And now I’m here to see that this task is finished,” said Rimensa to himself as he moused his way to initiating a video call. A chime announced the presence of the invitee to his chat: Roberto Gorch.
The screen displayed Gorch’s scowling face and his muscular upper torso. Gorch worked for an outfit based in Miami that was allied with the Chicago Group. His dark complexion nearly camouflaged the two-inch scar on his right cheek that protruded from under his scraggly beard. Droopy eyelids partially covered the irises of his brown eyes, creating a look that alternated between sleepy and devious.
“Roberto! I was just reading your report. Talk to me, my friend.” Joey disingenuously remarked.
Gorch shifted deliberately in his chair. “You got most of it in the email. We only got our deposit. We’re still waiting on the balance, dude.”
Joey returned to scratching his chin stubble, a favorite thinking pose that also served as a means to delay conversation, allowing him to collect his thoughts.
“We’ll get to that. Let me go through this step-by-step so we can see who did what, okay? Joey snarled.
Gorch said nothing but his gaze remained fixed upon the digital version of Joey.
Joey continued: “so we were able to hack into the records of Superior Monument Enterprises after one of our connections at St. John of the Cross saw that the gravestone of Evelyn Wahowski had been cleaned by that outfit. Seems the 20-somethings that started this rather ambitiously named cleaning company were sloppy. We were able to figure out some of the security questions right off of their Facebook page.
“Bunch of dopes,” Gorch mumbled.
“That’s what happens when a couple of high school dropouts with no street sense try to run a business.”
Gorch didn’t crack a smile at Joey’s attempt at humor. “So that led to Rafael.”
“Yeah,” replied Joey. “Grant didn’t order the work under her name. She had some sort of relationship with that Cuban ship captain. So she had Rafael order the work for her. Then it seems you guys got lucky.”
“First of all, screw you. My organization never relies upon luck,” bristled Gorch.
Rimensa and Gorch sat quietly for a moment, staring icily across the miles at one another, courtesy of technology. Had this been in person, it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine each subtly fingering a weapon.
Joey continued: “so you found Rafael and, you uh, persuaded him to give you information about Alexis Grant.”
Gorch nodded, “he didn’t know where the bitch lived but had a PO Box in Nassau that she used for her address. And that’s all he knew. We used our usual tools to extract information and got nothing else. Even a fucking superspy would’ve cracked if he knew more.”
“So a Nassau PO Box. She must be on the island of New Providence somewhere. No sense in having a mailbox that’s miles away by sea or air.”
“That’s what we figure. So what’s next?”
Joey’s chair squeaked slightly as he sat back again, hands clasped in front him, thumbs on his chin. “We sent some bait.”
“How so?” asked Gorch.
“We had one of our operatives hire a legit law firm. We gave him credentials that makes it look like he is an illegitimate son of Alexis Grant’s father. The dad died several years ago leaving everything to Alexis. The law firm wrote a nasty letter to Grant claiming she committed fraud by not giving proper notice or at least publishing for our fake heir. And we told the law firm that her address was the PO Box in Nassau that you found. So the letter will go directly there.”
For the first time a slight grin crossed Roberto Gorch’s face. “Nice. Stake out the post office and wait for the fish to take the bait.”
Joey let out a hearty belly laugh. “Already happened. Now it’s just a matter of tailing her before the team arrives.”
Gorch looked puzzled. “You don’t use the same guys who would be keeping tabs on her?”
Joey leaned forward in his chair. “Listen my friend, the Chicago Group is a business and we run it like one. Always separate tasks. That way, if one part of the supply chain gets, er, interrupted, we can shift easily to another. We put Miss Grant’s contract out for bid. We see who’s interested in the job. It’ll likely be a nice contract because it’s a double.”
“Who’s the second?”
Joey Rimensa smiled: “A Mr. George Vandenburg needs to go down with her.”
“Sure,” remarked Gorch, absent emotion. “Send it to me. I might be interested in that job. Or a couple of my guys might do it”
“Of course. Competition is the lifeblood of American capitalism, isn’t it?”
Both Joey and Gorch chuckled for a moment. Then Joey’s face twisted back into a sneer as he clicked on his computer to share a screen with Gorch. “Here’s the details.”
Gorch leaned forward to study the screen closely.
Chapter 4 coming up . . . but first:
How did Alexis Grant find herself in the Bahamas, 1400 miles from her roots in Illinois? For those of you who haven’t read either of the first two stories, the following song will give you some background:
Four:
The bright Bahamian morning sun danced among the gently swaying umbrellas that dotted the sidewalk in front of the Johnnycake Bakery. Bistro tables and chairs, scattered somewhat haphazardly under the fabric shelters, were half filled with patrons enjoying a light breakfast. George Vandenberg sat opposite Alexis, nibbling on a corner of the establishment’s eponymous dish. Alexis had simple black coffee perched on the wobbly wrought iron table in front of her, clasping her hands around the gently worn and chipped mug as if the chilly, clammy feeling on her palms had anything to do with the late-summer weather, the day dawning typically warm and humid.
The mood was peaceful. The Johnnycake was located in a little alcove that placed it a couple hundred feet from the bustle of Bay Street, Nassau’s commercial and tourist hub. That small buffer made the café feel a world apart.
“The cake is good, but it’s a far cry from bacon and eggs isn’t it,” grumbled George, his tone negated someone by the half smile that followed.
“Yeah, did we ever think the day would come when we’d be looking at our cholesterol and fighting to keep our weight where it should,” mused Alexis.
The table vibrated gently as George’s cell phone, planted alongside his plate, buzzed. “No caller ID, so a good guess as to who this is,” remarked George as he picked up his phone and tapped the green circle upon its face.
“Unless it’s someone from a third world country telling you that you have a problem with the IRS that needs immediate attention,” quipped Alexis as she smiled weakly.
“This is George.”
“George, John McAllister here. Sorry about the scratchy throat. I think I caught something on the flight over.”
George frowned slightly: “yeah, you do sound a bit hoarse. Anyway, we are here at the Johnnycake. Reception is a little bad too.”
“A little change in plans. I don’t think it’s wise that I meet with you this morning in person. But based upon some additional information I received just a few minutes ago, I think we can wrap up this problem pretty quickly.”
George briefly glanced over at Alexis, whose gaze was focused intently back upon him. He paused a moment as a plump waitress slowly sauntered over to refill both of their coffees. “Okay. What do you propose?”
“We know that two members of the Chicago Group are watching Alexis’ mailbox. They believe she’ll probably return there this afternoon to collect the day’s post. Then, we believe they’re simply going to tail her until she is in a location where they can grab her.”
George popped a bite of the crumbly, slightly spicy corn cake into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Go on.”
The voice on the cell call continued amidst some static and crackle: “what the Bureau will do is have a couple of our best waiting as well. When Alexis goes to retrieve her mail, we just want her to start walking away from the post office onto one of the quieter side streets. That way when the dudes try to grab her, we will be able to get the drop on them instead.”
“So you want to use her as bait?” George said with astonishment, covering his mouth with his free hand.
“In a manner of speaking. But trust me, she’ll be very safe. They’re not going to attempt anything amongst crowds of people and our guys will pick up the tail before they get anywhere near her. We’ll arrest the two; we know who they are and their rap sheet is long enough that we don’t need anything additional to accuse them of to put them away for a really long time, so we don’t need them to even make any kind of move towards her. Plus, here’s the best part for you guys. We are going to convince them that this isn’t the real Alexis, that we set this up as a ruse to lure them in. That way, you and Alexis can go on living your life in peace, as the Chicago Group won’t send anyone else here. Obviously, Alexis will have to set up a new mail drop somewhere. But that doesn’t seem like such a big deal.”
George exhaled with a low whistle. “I don’t know John; that sounds dangerous. And what are the goons going to say when they see me strolling alongside Alexis? Are they gonna think that the Bureau hired me, a retired PI, to watch her or what?”
“No, that’s not part of the plan. We don’t want you near Alexis. She’ll be fine with our agents. Having you somewhere within view might spook our targets.”
“I like this even less,” said George dryly.
“I get your concerns. But there aren’t any other options. And, this one should get them looking elsewhere for the lady.”
“I get what you’re saying.” George hesitated and looked across the table. “It’s not my decision. I’ve known Alexis long enough that she calls the shots with respect to her situation. Let me talk with her. Can I call you back?”
“Um, that’s not a good idea. Let me call you again in an hour.”
“Okay. In an hour.” George punched his cell phone and looked over at Alexis. “Let’s finish our breakfast and take a little walk. I’ll tell you what they have in mind.”
Alexis said nothing but nodded and raised the mug to her lips for a sip of the now newly warmed brew. The umbrella overhead flapped a bit as the breeze picked up momentarily.
—–
The tattoos that festooned the burly arms of George’s conversation partner flexed as he checked his phone to be sure that the call was completed.
“How did it go?” asked Gorch, giving a half-upward nod to Cleveland, his associate who had just completed his talk with George.
“I think they’ll bite. The app that dirtied up the call worked to hide my voice enough. I’ll turn on more charm when I call him back in about an hour,” Cleveland sneered.
“Yeah,” muttered Gorch.
“Although I don’t know how much charm an asshole like you would have,” snarled Cleveland as he back-handed the bound and gagged body of John McAllister in the jaw. A muffled grunt could be heard from underneath the strands of duct tape that encircled McAllister’s mouth, his eyes wide and darting with a combination of fear and ever-attentiveness from years of his training. McAllister was within a few feet of his captors, tied seated in a wooden chair, his bare arms and legs alternating white and red from the tension of the ropes.
Gorch leaned back in his chair, chuckling for a moment at the display of his confederate: “Yep. I think we stand to pick up some nice coin here. Too bad we can’t figure out how to take care of that Vandenberg son of a bitch too.” Gorch waived a hand towards McAllister. “Maybe this low-level fucker is worth something.”
“Nah. But maybe we can collect on Vandenberg, my friend, maybe we can,” said Cleveland. His eyes narrowed to two slits as he fell deep into thought.
Five:
Several Hours Ago . . .
The heavy glass doors directly opposite from where John McAllister sat slid briefly open before closing again against the dark, pre-dawn sky. A blast of warm, muggy air wafted by before being overwhelmed by the air-conditioning that kept the Miami satellite terminal tolerable. The waiting area was nearly full, as many knew that if one was to fly a puddle jumper from South Florida in August, it was best to do so as early in the day as possible to avoid the storms.
McAllister sat calmly. He’d been a desk guy most of his career. Although he occasionally traveled for the Bureau and he knew to keep his guard up, he certainly didn’t have the same instincts as a field agent. If he did, he might have noticed the two men across from him who exhibited more than just a casual interest in him as their fellow passenger.
“This is the boarding call for TransAmericana flight 6234, non-stop service to Nassau’s Lynden Pindling International Airport. Those passengers holding boarding passes for flight 6234 should make their way to the area marked ‘A’ for boarding.” The PA system crackled slightly as the monotone disembodied voice repeated the same directive in Spanish.
McAllister grabbed his small rollabout and joined an amoeba-like mass of three dozen or so individuals gathered around a signpost with a large letter ‘A’ mounted atop it. “Nonstop service,” McAllister thought to himself. “It’s a 45-minute flight. Where the hell is it supposed to stop? On a sandbar?”
Gorch and Cleveland sauntered over into the same queue. Both had donned sunglasses, a bit of an anomaly as the sun was more than an hour away from making its presence felt, but useful in that it allowed them to study McAllister relatively unnoticed.
The sliding glass door opened again, this time remaining ajar for the line of 6234’s passengers to shuffle through. A sound akin to a large leaf blower blasted into the terminal. The turboprop set to carry three individuals whose paths would cross was being readied for the short yet bumpy flight across the Atlantic.
—–
The ferry’s motor whined lower as it dropped speed, passing through the Tongue of the Ocean into Nassau Harbor. George Vandenberg stood up to make his way towards the starboard exit. As the craft eased into the dock, George saw Alexis awaiting him a few hundred feet away.
They embraced briefly after George made his way ashore. The two walked towards a line of waiting taxis, several Bahamian cabbies each gesturing and calling to them, beckoning them for business.
“So what’s the plan this morning?” queried Alexis.
“I texted John before I left. I don’t think he even went to bed last night as he’s catching the first flight out of Miami. I suggested a little café I know here we can catch some breakfast. It’s quiet and has pretty decent food. He said to go ahead and eat without him and he’ll hook up with us there, probably to do a walk and talk.”
Alexis nodded,” sounds okay by me, I guess.”
“May as well make the best of it. Hungry?”
“Not really,” Alexis smiled weakly, “you?”
George returned the grin, albeit more broadly: “I’m a guy. I can always eat.”
George leaned into the window of the cab where a portly middle-aged Bahamian man with a stubbly beard appeared to be nearly dozing off. “Hello sir. How much to take us to The Johnnycake Bakery?”
The cabbie was not at all startled. He slowly turned his head, scratching his eyebrow as he pondered a moment. “Okay, yeah, the one off Bay Street. Let me see.” The taxi driver gave George and Alexis a quick up and down, trying to gauge the fare more based upon his patrons’ ability to pay rather than any set schedule or rate.
—–
It happened so fast that McAllister didn’t have time to react. Multiple individuals – at least two men or maybe more – accosted him as he walked down the hall towards the hotel room he had booked. He had intended that the Queen’s Colonial Inn on the west end of Nassau be a temporary safe haven for Alexis Grant. Instead, he smelled something sweet and pungent from the rag that that was looped over his face from behind. He wasn’t sure if he passed out from the chemical that soaked the cloth or the dull blow of a blunt object he felt cracking into the back of his skull, right under where it curves down towards his neck.
In the haze of semi-consciousness, musings from maybe hours earlier, maybe minutes, he wondered how he could’ve been so stupid. Someone must have tailed his cab from the airport to the hotel. He had a vague recollection of lying on the floor while someone pried the key card to room 206 from his hand. Another individual seemed to be rifling through his bag, muttering something about a cell phone. He could hear laughter as someone grabbed his hair roughly from behind, yanking his head into an upright position.
“Look,” laughed Cleveland,” if you hold a fucking cell phone in front of someone you coldcocked, the face ID works.”
“Good. Now we can use this asshole’s own phone to set our trap,” replied Gorch.
McAllister vaguely recalled being dragged along the tiled hall into a room. Trying to look like an inconspicuous tourist, he had worn shorts and a short sleeve shirt on the flight over. He rued that decision as the ropes his attackers used to tie him to the wooden desk chair in the hotel room dug deeply into the skin on his arms and legs.
McAllister felt a new throbbing, this time in his jaw. He refocused his eyes, snapping himself back into the here and now. He studied both Gorch and Cleveland, who by now were paying him little attention. “There always has to be an option,” thought McAllister to himself, “ . . . but what?”
John McAllister looked around the room, feeling the tight binding around his legs and his arms and torso, and the sting of the duct tape across his mouth. The aroma of chloroform still invaded his nostrils as his mind snapped back into training mode.
Six:
Alexis fiddled with the key in the lock of her PO Box. The late morning sun beat upon her back, causing small rivulets of sweat to carve riparian-like deltas vertically down her tank top. She and George spent a couple hours strolling along Bay Street and later sitting in a local park discussing their next move.
“Damn humidity,” she muttered to herself. “Makes even simple things like turning a key in a lock a challenge.”
Alexis decided to take George’s lead on how to proceed. He had been in the PI business for 40 years and had good instincts. George felt something was fishy about McAllister’s call. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it; yet, they couldn’t directly ignore the set up that McAllister proposed as clearly the Chicago Group was getting too close for comfort.
The door to the postal box finally swung open with a soft creak. There was no mail within. Alexis gently closed the door and turned just in time to see two men climb out of an older sedan that had been parked nearby. The auto had tinted glass that had not afforded a view into its contents prior. She felt her mouth go dry as the two strode purposefully towards her.
George Vandenburg had his eye on the sedan as well. From his perch behind shrubbery and a low stucco wall perhaps fifty feet away, he could see the entire plaza that contained the mail center kiosk. Stealthily, he slipped back around the postal building towards the opposite side.
“Miss Grant,” said Gorch as he walked alongside Alexis. Gorch pulled a faded black wallet case from his side pocket, flipped it open briefly, and then thrust it back into his baggy jeans.
As Gorch pulled the tattered card case out, Alexis noticed that a bulge remained in his pants. She guessed that it wasn’t because he was happy to see her.
“FBI. You can relax. There’s been a change of plans,” Gorch continued. “The individuals that we feared might be seeking to do you harm are not a threat at this moment. My associate and I will take you to a place of safety where we can discuss the situation further.”
Cleveland stepped onto the other side of Alexis, to her left. With his right hand he grabbed her upper arm, a bit roughly for a G-man.
“Oh, I didn’t realize . . .,” said Alexis haltingly.
“It’s no problem, Miss Grant,” hissed Cleveland. “My associate and I can assure you that after our meeting, you will never fear for your life again.” To her right, Alexis noticed a small smile curl upon Gorch’s lips.
Alexis began coughing. She bent slightly forward as one large cough shook her torso. Cleveland pulled his hand slightly away from her arm, allowing her to shake this sudden jag.
In a flash, Alexis pivoted up and to her left. Her left elbow caught Cleveland square in the jaw. He stumbled back a step. Before he or Gorch could react, Alexis swung her cupped right hand around, artfully boxing Cleveland’s left ear, causing him to yelp in pain and surprise.
Gorch fumbled in his pocket, the same that contained the phony FBI info and wallet. Alexis noticed a glimpse of sunlight that was flashing off a metallic object in Gorch’s right hand. It was rising up towards her.
She heard a loud bang. But it was followed by someone else crying out, not her. Gorch grabbed his right wrist with his left hand, as from the corner of her eye, Alexis could see Gorch’s revolver spinning and sliding away from them along the pavement.
George, after having chopped down on Gorch’s right wrist with his right hand from behind, kicked the back of Gorch’s left knee. Gorch crumpled to the ground.
All four parties paused for an eternal nano-second before both goons headed off down the street, Cleveland dripping blood from his left ear as he ran and Gorch, at first crawling, then limping along on a leg and a half, cursing loudly as he trailed Cleveland through the side street.
“You’d think they leave in their car?” Alexis queried.
“Stolen, I’d bet,” replied George, rubbing his rapidly swelling right hand. “Let’s get the hell out of here before they regain some courage.”
George stepped into the main street and waved at a rusted and dented cab that was parked inconspicuously a few hundred feet up the road. The taxi pulled up to the curb. George opened the door for Alexis and then he clambered in after her.
“Okay my friend, to the airport, but taking the route we agreed upon,” George said calmly as he handed the driver a $100 bill.
“Yes man. That be all right,” replied the Bahamian cabbie with a grin.
The cab rolled along about a mile, going around a couple curves on the highway and then the taxi driver turned onto a side street and rolled to a halt, about a block off the main drag.
“Okay sir, ma’am. This is the spot, right?” The cabbie sounded a bit incredulous.
“Perfect! After you let us off, just finish the run out to the airport. My associate will meet you there. Let’s see; you are cab number 7380.”
The driver nodded and George patted him on the back with his left hand.
George and Alexis stepped out onto a crumbled sidewalk in front of a couple of closed shops. But for a cat that seemed to be struggling with a bad case of fleas, the street looked deserted. Alexis had the same quizzical look as the cab driver a moment earlier. “And now?”
“We double back to the harbor,” said George. “It’s a bit of a walk, but I think we can be at the dock in a half hour or so. I don’t think we should use any more cabs. I know the side route from here.”
“I think I get it,” Alexis said with an ‘a-ha moment’ tone of voice. “One question. Who is waiting for the cab at the airport?”
George smiled: “no one. But I know the cab will make it there if the driver thinks there is.”
George and Alexis turned the corner and walked briskly through a quiet alley, heading towards Nassau harbor. George’s phone buzzed his pocket. He retrieved it and noticed no caller ID on the screen.
“Vandenburg here.”
Seven:
The maid didn’t appear stunned. It was as if she always came across gentlemen bound and gagged in rooms she cleaned. She tossed her dreadlocks along her back, ambled into the hall to secure a razor scraper from her utility cart and sliced through the ropes securing John McAllister.
Knowing what was to come, McAllister winced in advance as he ripped the duct tape off his face in one fell swoop. Unfortunately, a couple layers of skin from his lips and around his mouth remained attached to the sticky strip. Blood trickled onto his shirt as he stood up.
“Thank you. Thank you so much Miss.”
“No problem sir,” replied the maid with a sly smile, handing him a fresh hand towel. “Did the fun get a little rough last night?”
McAllister thought a moment. “You might say that,” he said, stuffing his cell phone in his bag. He reached inside his rollabout but his wallet was missing. “Yes. Rough. I seem to be missing my wallet.”
The maid proceeded to strip the bed as if what she witnessed was an everyday occurrence. ”Sometimes folks do that,” she said shaking your head. “Maybe they think they need a bigger tip or something.”
“And I want to get one to you. I know you hear this a lot, but I promise. If you could be so kind as to tell me your name I will make sure that something comes your way.”
The maid paused from fluffing a pillow to stuff it into a freshly laundered case. “Ellie.”
“Thank you Ellie. You have a good day.” McAllister paused a second to survey the room before he trotted down the hallway, pausing every now and then to dab fresh blood from his face onto the towel Ellie provided.
“And you have a better one,” muttered Ellie as she went about her business.
—–
“George. I’m glad to hear your voice.”
“And I’m glad to hear yours as well John. We just got done with an encounter with some of the characters you no doubt had to deal with.”
John McAllister dabbed another pool of blood onto the now white and deep red towel. “Yeah, funny story. I’ll tell you more sometime. The key thing is are you and Alexis both okay?”
“Yes. We’re on our way to the airport,” said George. Alexis gave him a puzzled look but said nothing as she power walked next to him.
“Good, good. I’ll contact one of my men and set it up for you. Let’s get you and Alexis back to the states and we will go from there.”
“Give us at least an hour. It’s a mess here on Bay Street. You’d think it was tourist season.”
“Understood,” said McAllister.
George clicked off the phone. He looked over at Alexis, anticipating her thoughts.
“Yes, I just lied to my friend. But at this point, neither of us are heading back to the US. I want to give everyone the slip at this point.”
“Okay, I probably already asked the same question a half a dozen times over the past few days. But what’s the plan?”
“Where’s the last place anybody will expect you to be?”
Alexis thought a moment. “Where they found me.”
“Exactly,” George replied.
“So back to Grouper Cay we go?”
“Although Captain Rafael met with a tragic end, Ricky has taken over manning the Santa Clara with his young boy. I’ve made arrangements for him to meet us at the harbor and sail us back.”
“Makes sense,” Alexis nodded as she walked swiftly. “The ferry would be too conspicuous.”
The heat and humidity caused their shirts to soak through as they hurried along towards their transport.
____
Ricky Sanchez kept the engines of the Santa Clara idling as he gazed along the docks. He smiled broadly as he noticed his two fares walking faster than any Nassau inhabitant should along the boardwalk, both of them drenched in sweat.
“Hola Senior Ricky,” George beamed.
“Hola Mister George, Miss Alexis. Glad to see you both.”
Ricky nodded to his son who cast off the last line from its cleat. The Santa Clara’s engines rumbled as the craft made its way slowly out of Nassau harbor, carrying George and Alexis on the afternoon journey to Grouper Cay.
“Captain Ricky, do you have any ice?” Alexis noticed the nice shades of purple and red that adorned George’s right hand.
Ricky shouted in Spanish to his son who quickly retrieved a bag of ice and some fresh towels from below, accompanied by two cold beers.
“Ah,” George exclaimed with a wry grin.” Medication for our bodies, inside and out.”
Alexis and George eased into the gentle rocking of the ship as Ricky gunned its diesel engines up to cruising speed, having cleared the harbor area. The day continued warm and humid, with a few building cumulus clouds, harbingers of the later afternoon’s activities.
“You’ll have to switch your mail drop from Nassau of course.”
Alexis looked a bit downcast. “On the run again. Won’t my life ever get easier?”
George had no answer. Alexis turned away and focused instead on the greenish-blue waters gently splashing along the side of the Santa Clara as it and its crew and passengers made their way to a known destination and an unknown future.
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