Don Bruns - Stuff to die for

“Were there any casualties?”

“We haven’t been able to get inside the building, so we don’t know. The heat is just too intense.”

“Would you say, due to the intensity of the fire, that there may have been some accelerants involved?”

“All I can tell you at this time is, we are still fighting the fire. When it’s safe to go in, we’ll do a thorough investigation.”

The scene faded and the anchor came back on. “A source close to the location tells us the Cuban Social Club is the headquarters for a group of Cuban refugees called the Old Militia. The Old Militia is apparently comprised of Cubans who are known as Los Historicos. We’ll have more information as it becomes available.”

“What was that all about?” Em stared at the screen as the weather map came on.

James punched the remote and the screen went black. “ Los Historicos -families that left Cuba when Castro took control. I think a lot of them had property that was seized by the Castro regime.”

“That was almost fifty years ago.”

“Yeah. And they still want their property back.”

“How old would those people be?” Em asked.

“It’s not just them. It’s their sons, daughters, and grandkids too. They’ve never even been there, but they want what was their inheritance.”

I remembered junior high history. “These are the ones who launched the Bay of Pigs invasion. They were trying to take the country back in the sixties.”

James nodded. “Yeah. And the story is that the United States was going to support them, and President Kennedy and the CIA backed out at the last minute. A lot of people got killed.”

We were all quiet for a couple of minutes. Finally Em spoke up.

“I wonder what the hell we’ve gotten ourselves into?”

All three of us jumped when we heard the sharp knock on the front door.

N O ONE EVER CAME TO OUR APARTMENT. If there was a social event, we went there. Em and a handful of girls that James saw were the only ones who ever visited and only when they were invited. Our pink stucco hovel was not a place to invite polite company.

The staccato knock came again, and we looked at each other. A lot of the units around us had iron grates covering the windows and front door. I’m not sure why, because no one had much to protect. I knew that from selling-or attempting to sell-my security systems. Still, this was one time I wished we had the iron bars. Maybe to protect our lives.

I looked through the peephole and saw two guys, mid-thirties, in polo shirts and slacks. One guy had a huge mouth and he was licking his lips. They had dark skin, probably of Latin descent. The second guy shifted back and forth on his feet, anxious, maybe nervous.

“Two guys, dark skin, casual dress. Anyone want to see what they want?”

There was no response from my colleagues. If this involved the fire and last night, James was the one who got us into this mess, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to answer the door.

I opened it just enough to slip through the opening and stepped out on the front porch.

“Can I help you?” I was scared to death.

They were muscular, both carrying maybe twenty or thirty pounds too much in the mid-section. The nervous guy spoke first.

“You own the truck there?”

“No.” I wanted to be truthful.

“How about the Thunderbird?” He squinted, maybe trying to look intimidating. I was amazed I was out here with these two intimidators, but I was, and I wasn’t going to make this easy for them.

“Nope. Neither one is mine.” I kept thinking one of them would pull out a pistol or a knife.

They looked at each other, obviously not sure what step to take next.

“You James Lessor?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, can you tell us where he is?”

James could have been in the apartment or maybe he was on the back patio. He could have gone to the bathroom or the little kitchenette. I really didn’t know.

“I have no idea where he is.” They were going to figure me out in a second.

“How about-” The guy with the mouth pulled out a piece of paper, “-how about Emily Williams?” That heavy accent. Could have been the guy who flashed his flashlight and badge at us last night.

“Seriously. I don’t know.”

The first guy, with a rough complexion and slicked-back black hair, took a step toward me.

“Look, we ran the plates on these two vehicles in front of this apartment. Now maybe you don’t know where these two people are, but it’s important we talk to them.”

I was sweating bullets. “If I see them, why don’t I tell them to call you.”

“The car and truck are both here. They’ve got to be here. Why don’t you invite us inside just to see for ourselves.”

“Can I ask you why you want to see them?”

The greasy one looked for approval from the mouth. The big guy shrugged his shoulders.

“Both these vehicles were spotted in Little Havana last night, just before a building exploded. We’d like to talk to the owners about what they might have seen.”

“Are you with the police?”

“Yeah.” They said it almost simultaneously.

“Miami Police?” I didn’t believe it.

“Sure.”

“Do you have identification?”

The mouthy guy drew a deep breath. “If we find that either of these people had anything to do with the fire or if they say anything about what they might have seen, the cops will be the least of their worries. You need to tell them that. You need to tell them that whatever they saw or thought they saw last night needs to stay with them. Do you understand the message?”

I could feel drops of sweat running down my chest. “I think so. I’ll be happy to pass the message on.”

I saw him round the row of buildings in front of me. He just cleared the structure, paused, and stood there, like a silent sentry. I watched him for a second too long, and my two visitors both turned their heads and saw him too. He continued to stare at us, arms folded, an imposing black statue. Our own Angel.

They turned back to me, the look on their faces a little less certain. The greaser spoke. “You can’t begin to imagine what will happen if they tell anyone about last night. Please tell me you understand this.” He looked back over his shoulder.

“I understand.”

The mouthy guy with the accent put his hand up, and for a moment I thought he might strike me. “One more thing. If you ever watch a property again, don’t use the old ‘we were just making out’ routine. It’s very dated.”

They spun around and walked off the porch, getting into a big blue Buick.

I stood on the porch for thirty seconds, waiting for my heart to stop racing. Angel was nowhere to be seen.

L IKE I SAID, everyone liked Vic Maitlin. Even if you were envious of his swarthy good looks, his talent, his scholastic aptitude, and his sexual prowess, you still couldn’t help but like him. You could overlook the fact that he hung around with those two hoods, Cramer and Stowe. He was a guy’s guy. He’d hang with the regular guys and make everyone feel his aura. I know it sounds almost supernatural, but he had an aura. You wanted some of it to rub off on you.

“I wanted some of whatever he had. It just seemed that you should be able to bottle him and pour it over yourself whenever you needed a dose of cool.” James sat on the arm of the couch, watching the news babe, the sound a low babble.

“With a missing finger and threats from beefy guys like those two, I don’t think I’d want to be Vic right now.” I pulled a beer from the refrigerator. “Em?”

“No. I’m fine. These two guys actually mentioned what I said about making out?”