Don Bruns - Stuff to die for

“So do we go to the cops or not?” I watched their faces, looking for signs of surrender. We were all set to tell everything we knew until James called. Now we weren’t sure.

“You guys have a cop ask you to leave the area. I think I see who could be your cop go into the building. Five minutes later a cop car pulls up behind me with his light flashing-”

“And why didn’t you call us about that?” Em frowned.

“He gets out of the car, tells me to either leave or follow him to the station, and I was just pulling away when all hell broke loose. I was busy putting the pedal to the metal.”

I sipped on my third cup of coffee. A heavy-set black lady in the next booth shoveled a heaping spoonful of red beans and rice into her mouth. “Are you sure it was a police car?”

He thought for a moment. “No. But he had a bubble light on top.”

“Could have been a security vehicle, or just a car with the light. You can buy those. Scott Morrissey had one, remember? Used to put it on his car and scare the hell out of the people making out at night down at Boynton Beach.”

“Yeah.” James stared out the window.

“So, James, do you think that car was the vehicle I saw that was on fire?”

“I didn’t stick around to find out. If there was a vehicle burning in that alley, it might have been the same car.”

I still smelled like smoke. I’d showered, put on clean clothes and still could detect the sharp pungent odor.

Em frowned again. “Quit sniffing yourself. You’re fine.”

“Do we go to the cops or not?”

“Not.” James was adamant. Since his father’s arrest, he’s avoided cops at all costs.

“Why not?”

“Have we done anything wrong?”

I pondered that. “Good question.”

Em chewed on a piece of toast. “I’m sure we’ve broken the law somewhere.”

“Where? I doubt there is a law that says you have to call the authorities when you find a finger. And I know that sitting outside the Cuban Social Club was not against the law. Moving belongings isn’t illegal. So where have we broken the law?”

“All right, maybe we haven’t. But they’re going to want people to come forward who saw what happened.”

James held his hand up. “Hold on, miss do-gooder. What exactly did you see? A fire. That’s all. We didn’t see how it started.”

“How about the cop-or the phony cop. We could tell someone about that.”

“I don’t think we’re obligated to do that. And I don’t want to cross Fuentes.”

“Would the second installment on the five thousand dollars have anything to do with that?” Emily smirked. Somewhere between a smile and a frown.

“I believe you cut yourself in on that, so we’ve all got something to lose.”

She was quiet.

“There’s one upside to this mess.” I’d been thinking about the positives. There weren’t many.

“We don’t have a building to watch today.”

They both shook their heads. James dragged a sausage through gravy and stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed it carefully. “So the question is, do we call Fuentes? We did our part, kept up our end of the bargain. Now we need to know where he stands.”

We agreed. Fuentes needed a phone call, and they agreed I should make the call.

James left to drive down the road to our humble abode. Em offered me a ride in the smoky T-Bird.

“James is gone.” I looked into her eyes. “What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

She hesitated. “Nothing. Not right now. It’s something that can wait, okay?”

“Em?”

“Later.” She paid at the register and we drove back to the apartment in silence.

W E SAT IN CHEAP PLASTIC CHAIRS on the cement slab. Em had a Sprite and even though it wasn’t quite 8 a.m. James and I had beers. The older couple behind us were nowhere to be seen, but the playpen was set up like always, with a faded blue blanket draped over one side.

“I think it’s too early to call.”

James tapped the phone on my lap. “We need to tell him before it makes the news.”

I punched in the numbers and the little blond answered.

“Hi, this is Skip Moore. Can I speak to Mr. Fuentes?” Moments later he came on the line.

“Mr. Moore. Do you have news?”

“Uh, yeah. Sort of.” I never did well in speech class. “We watched the building last night-”

“And?”

“And it caught on fire. It was a huge fire and-”

The thick Cuban accent sounded like that guy from the old TV show, Fantasy Island. “Caught on fire? What do you mean caught on fire?”

“It was more like an explosion.”

“And the occupants?”

“We seriously don’t know. We were approached by a policeman just before the building exploded, and he told us to leave the area.”

Fuentes was quiet for a moment. Then, as if he were talking to himself he said, “So the fire was preplanned. They knew that I knew.”

“Knew what, Mr. Fuentes? That Vic was staying there?”

“Have you told anyone? That you were watching?”

“No.” I glanced at the co-conspirators. “We haven’t said a word to anyone.”

“Don’t. Do you understand? This entire incident-you looking for Vic-this must remain in strictest confidence.”

“No problem.”

“Mr. Moore, I can’t stress this enough. You could be in a lot of danger if you mention this to anyone. I’ll be in touch with you in the near future.” He hung up the phone and I sat there looking at the receiver, more confused than ever.

“What?” James took a swallow of beer.

“I think I was threatened.”

Em looked up from her coffee. “Threatened?”

“He said the fire must have been preplanned and they knew that he knew too much. Then he said to keep it to ourselves or we could be in a lot of trouble and he’ll be in touch.”

“Make any sense to you?”

“None.”

“Anything about the $2,500?” James, the guy watching the bottom line.

“Maybe he’s a little more concerned that his son was in that inferno. Maybe that’s a little more important that our $2,500 right now.”

Em sipped on the Sprite. “The local news should be on at eight. Let’s go in and see what they’re saying.”

We got up and walked in the rear sliding-glass door. It didn’t exactly slide anymore but if you jiggled it enough it opened and closed.

“Skip, the playpen out there-still just the old couple and no baby?” Em had noticed it before.

James turned on the television and we sat on the ratty, faded cloth couch that passed as the best seat in the house. “I saw the old guy a couple of days ago and asked him,” he said.

“You just asked him what the playpen was for?”

“Well, he volunteered. He was out, I was out. He nodded, I nodded, and he motioned to the playpen. He said ‘For our grandson.’ I asked him how old and he says, ‘Six months. We’ve never seen him.’ So, I said, ‘He must live far away,’ and he says, ‘No, in Coral Gables. We never approved of the baby’s father, and when he was born my daughter decided to shut us out of her life.’”

“How sad.” Em had tears in the corners of her eyes. “So the playpen sits there and they wait for their grandson to visit?”

“I don’t know. The old guy shrugged his shoulders and walked back inside.”

The local Sunday morning anchor led with the story.

“A huge explosion in Little Havana rocked the community last night as a building called the Cuban Social Club caught fire about 2 a.m. Firefighters spent three hours battling the blaze.” Footage of the fire flashed on the screen and a fireman in full gear spoke into a reporter’s microphone.

“We don’t know the cause of the fire yet. It could be days before we are sure what happened. There appear to be three vehicles that caught fire as well.”