Don Bruns - Stuff to die for

James and I both gave him a frown and he backed down.

We got out and opened the back.

“Let’s keep the mail separate.” I took a box of letters to the side and James and Angel followed.

We started hauling boxes and items to the back of the unit and two hours later we’d reached the front.

James surveyed the rear of the truck, empty now except for Rick Fuentes’s mail. “If we’d get rid of that false wall and the storage space, we could haul a lot more.”

“Let’s get this finished and we’ll consider it.” I pulled the unit door shut.

“Guy had a lot of stuff.” Angel wiped his brow.

“Stuff.” James smiled.

“We’ve still got his mail.” I leaned against the building, catching my breath. Too many beers and fast-food joints.

James drew a deep breath. “Hey, bro, we had reason to open the man’s mail the last time.”

“You think? We had a package that was leaking blood.”

“Then I say we have more reason than ever to open it now.”

“Okay. But only if it looks like it’s pertinent to the situation.”

“What’s the situation?” Angel was in the dark.

“Long story, Angel. Why don’t you take a breather in the cab and Skip and I will sort this stuff out. Okay?”

He gave us a frown, studying the situation for a moment. Then he nodded. “No problem.” I think he relished the idea. Maybe catch a little nap before his night of whatever. Angel got into the truck and rolled the window down and watched us.

We divided the packages and mail and started wading through the envelopes and boxes while we sat cross-legged on the ground. A good ten minutes went by and James finally looked at me and said, “I don’t know how we’d know what to look for. There’s nothing here that looks like it would give us any information.”

“Hell, we’re fishing, James.”

“Have no idea what we’re going to catch.”

I pulled out the manila envelope at that exact moment. It looked just like the envelope with the finger. The return address was Cubana Coffee Inc., Jacksonville, Florida.

“James. Here’s some mail from a company that has Cuba in its name.” I handed him the envelope. He stared at it for a second, then handed it back.

“Another guy’s mail, I don’t know-”

“The guy who planted condoms in the dean of students’s desk drawer? The guy who stole Professor Owen’s Boston Whaler and took a joy ride down South Beach? When did you get religion?”

“All right. Open it.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“This could screw up our $5,000. You know that.”

“Yeah.”

“At the same time it could save our lives.”

“Skip, it’s probably nothing. Now quit talking and open it up!”

“The problem is getting him to shut up.”

He smiled. “Mike Myers, Shreck.”

I carefully tore open the envelope. I kept thinking I could repair the damage later on and no one would know. Obviously that wasn’t going to happen. Once you’ve crossed a line-and we’d definitely crossed it when we opened the bloody envelope-then it’s a whole lot easier to keep, excuse the pun, pushing the envelope.

“Open the damned thing, will you?”

I pulled out a sheaf of papers and scanned the opening letter.

To whom it may concern:

We represent a group of investors who are funding a company called Cafe Cubana Inc. Said company will consist of a series of franchised and company-owned coffeehouses initially located throughout the state of Florida. The operation will have a central warehouse where a special blend of Cuban coffee will be packaged and shipped to the individual locations. The operations will profit from retail sales of in-store sales of food and beverage, in-store sales of pre-packaged product, and mail order and Internet sales of product. Cafe Cubana Inc. will eventually move into the eastern corridor of the United States, targeting New England and the New York State market.

I read it back to James.

“Shit. There’s a brilliant idea. I wish we’d come up with it.”

“I think your hauling idea is about as involved as I care to be right now.”

He wrinkled his forehead. “Okay, wiseass, what are the rest of the papers?”

“Lists of investors.” I shuffled through about fifty sheets. “Man, there must be hundreds of thousands of dollars committed here.”

“What level?”

I flipped through the first five. “Twenty-five thousand, here’s one for one hundred thousand, another twenty-five-” I handed him half the stack.

“And this is what Ricardo Fuentes does for a living, right? Finds investors for companies and takes his cut off the top. Christ, Skip. If there’s a million dollars here and he gets just 10 percent he’s pocketed one hundred thou.”

Five minutes later we compared notes.

“Almost four million dollars pledged. And I get the impression there’s a lot more where this came from.”

“Holy shit. Rick Fuentes takes home four hundred thousand dollars in commission? Un-fucking believable.” James looked at the stack of papers. “Can you imagine fifty people investing four million in our hauling venture?”

“We could buy a lot of trucks.”

“Trucks and a warehouse and a staff and some advertising.” He was lost in his own little fantasy world.

“James, look at the names.”

He concentrated on the page I waved in front of him. “That can’t be the former governor.”

“Same name.”

“And this guy?” He pointed to a name on the list. “Christ, is this the same guy who heads up the amusement park and movie company?”

“At that level of money, I would guess it is.”

“Holy shit.” He ran his finger down the list. “And this is the big car dealer?”

I nodded. “This is a huge project, James.”

“Amigo, this is the mother lode of projects.” He continued to scan the list.

The blue Buick had glided silently in, unannounced. I heard the door slam shut and glanced up. Big mouth and his friend stood there with their arms folded, both dressed in black T-shirts that defined their big chests, biceps, and the bulges at their waist-lines.

“Mr. Lessor?”

James seemed to shrink back toward the wall of the building. Never quite the bravado I think he has.

“Mr. Moore.” The other guy gave me a sickening smile. “We took the time to find out about you two. It’s too bad your female friend isn’t here.”

“What?”

“What? We want the stack of papers you’ve been sorting through, the mail that belongs to Ricardo Fuentes, and then you’re coming with us.”

“I don’t think so.” What the hell was I going to do about it?

Big mouth reached into his waistband and pulled out a pistol. This was the second time I’d looked down the barrel of a gun, and I can tell you it is truly a frightening experience. Honest to God, it looks like you’re looking into a dark tunnel and there’s no end in sight. That’s the first thing I thought of. I decided then and there that I was getting out of the hauling business as soon as possible.

J AMES FINALLY SPOKE. “We don’t know anything. We can’t possibly be any problem for you.”

The jittery man with the greasy hair grabbed my half of the papers and leafed through them.

“Cafe Cubana.” He glanced at his partner then back to us. “What do you know about Cafe Cubana?”

“Nothing. Nothing but what we’ve read. A coffee shop with Cuban coffee.”

“Jesus Christ. What do you have?” He shuffled the papers in front of his gun-toting sidekick. “These are the donors.” He looked back at me. “How the hell did you get these papers?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “It was part of the mail that Mr. Fuentes left at his other house. Honestly, we were told to store them in this storage unit.” I watched the gunman the entire time I answered. If he so much as twitched, I was prepared to throw myself on the ground.