Don Bruns - Stuff to die for

James clapped his hands. “Bravo, Mario Andretti. Your driving skills are to be admired.”

The buildings were now all concrete block or vinyl and metal siding. I could make out cranes and heavy construction equipment for almost an entire block, and I could smell the water. An iodine, rotting seaweed, and decaying fish odor mixed with an oily smell, the kind you associate with diesel engines.

We drove three more blocks and I could see the end of the street. The Lexus’s headlights bounced off a metal guardrail with diagonal red-striped tape and Angel pulled over and killed the lights.

“Too close. We’ll see if he goes right or left, then we’ll pick him up.”

He turned right.

The taillights had just cleared the corner when Angel pulled out from the curb. He flipped on the lights and raced to the dead end. As he eased out, we all three peered down the side street that ran along the water to the right. There was absolutely no sign of the Lexus.

A NGEL INCHED DOWN THE STREET as we stared into the gloom, watching for driveways, entrances, or side streets. There was no Lexus in sight. Glancing to the left I saw the river, lights from the highway that ran above casting shimmering yellow and white snakes on the inky black surface. We could make out crumbling concrete curbs and a one-story stucco building with piles of weathered wooden lobster traps stacked next to it. On a warped piece of plywood someone had painted Miami River Lobster and Stone Crab. Dark clouds covered the moon and stars, and the entire atmosphere was claustrophobic.

“Maybe he noticed us and pulled off up ahead.” James was concerned.

“And maybe going down this street, we’re driving into an ambush.” Now there was something I never thought I’d say.

“Gentlemen, be patient. I feel certain the two men had no idea they were being followed. And I feel confident that if they’re here, we’ll find them.”

We were quiet, creeping through the deserted neighborhood, watching for some sign of activity. The moon broke through for a moment and I could see an old rusted fishing trawler rolling with the current. The Peggy Anne. Ghostly, gutted buildings on sagging frames threatened to collapse into the river at any moment, and dark shadows played along the bank.

Five minutes at ten miles an hour and we were beyond the warehouse district. It was obvious we’d lost them.

“Man, it would have been a great break.”

“James, think about it. The last time we staked out a building we were warned. Now we know these guys play rough.”

“I know, amigo, but remember, Angel brought the complete package.”

“Jesus, let’s not get into shooting people again. All we want to do is find Vic, report the story, and go home.”

Angel pulled into a drive, turned around, and we headed back the opposite way. “This Vic? He was a childhood friend?”

“Sort of. We didn’t know him that well. He was the kind of kid everybody looked up to. President of student council, big shot football player, good student, and looks to kill. His dad is Rick Fuentes.”

James chimed in. “You left out the part about his girlfriend. And the fact that he apparently is responsible for you being alive today.”

I ignored part of the sentence. “Vic dated Emily when we were in school. For a very short time, I might add.”

“And,” James continued, “we’re hoping he wasn’t killed in that fire.”

We drove slowly down the street, still not believing that we’d lost them. Their car was going to pull out onto the street at any second.

It didn’t happen. Angel kept it slow. The occasional halogen lamp spilled light into a deserted parking lot outside a small factory or warehouse, and then we were back to the street we had driven in on.

“We can go back to Carol City and admit defeat. We can go back and hope that the Cubans will leave us alone, and maybe they will.” Angel took a deep breath. “Or we can try one more time.”

“What are we going to see that we haven’t seen?”

“Probably nothing. But we can try.”

“Nah. We lost them, Angel.” James figured we’d given it a shot.

Angel spun the Jeep around and headed back down the street one more time. No Lexus.

“Give it up, man.” I was tired, and it wasn’t going to be a good idea to take tomorrow off from work. I’d already blown off several appointments and an entire day. The only good thing about my job was that losing it wasn’t the end of the world. And I was afraid it would come to that.

Angel picked up the speed and we headed back the other way. Forty minutes later or less we’d be back at the apartment. I wondered if Em could sleep. She had to be thinking about the baby, and when things bothered her, they really bothered her.

“Angel,” James called from the backseat. “Stop. Back up. About three properties.”

Angel put it in reverse and eased it back.

“Slow down. Right here.”

Absolutely no Lexus.

“Look down between the two buildings.”

The two low-roofed buildings were blue corrugated metal, and a dim floodlight mounted on a pole highlighted a small parking area. Between the two buildings I could barely make out a forklift. “James, there’s no Lexus.”

“Angel, do me a favor. Stop right here and kill the lights.”

Angel pulled into a gravel parking lot and shut the engine off.

“Let’s walk up there. Just humor me.”

We walked slowly, no traffic or people in sight, just dim shadows.

“What the hell did you see?” I couldn’t see anything.

“Up ahead.”

Angel looked back over his shoulder. The Jeep almost disappeared in the dark.

“I thought I saw movement. Honest to God. Like someone going between buildings. I figured if there are people here at this hour of the night, maybe the car is here.”

“Quite an imagination, James.”

He shot me a look. “You got a better idea?”

We walked down between the two buildings, about fifteen feet apart. The yellow forklift was parked close to the outside wall. It was old and beat up, the yellow paint chipped and faded, and the fork tines themselves looked worn and shiny.

“There.” James walked up to the building. “A door, right here.” He was whispering. “And right over here, a door on the other building. I knew I saw something. Someone went from one building to the other.”

We looked at each other. It meant nothing.

“Ah, fuck it. I thought maybe-” He drifted off. I started back to the Jeep.

“Skip!” A loud, course whisper. James was pointing wildly, beyond the forklift.

I walked back and followed him. Seven car lengths from the forklift the dark sedan sat against the wall, passenger side out. The dark blue paint was scratched to the bare metal, and swatches of white streaked across the surface. The top of the car was severely dented and the windshield had a crack from top to bottom. It appeared that in the battle of the box truck versus the Buick, the truck had won.

T HE CUBANS’ BUICK sat there in plain sight and a line from The Pit and the Pendulum came to mind.

A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in torrents upon my heart, and for a brief period, I once more relapsed into insensibility.

There. I’d like to see James, Angel, or Em identify that line. But it was true. I lost all sensibility and felt my heart beating about triple speed.

James rubbed his fingers over the white scratches. “Sons of bitches.”

Angel smiled and in a hoarse whisper said, “I recognize the car. The Cubans with the gun. So,” he looked around, “the white car must be in one of these buildings.”

“And what are we supposed to do? Just open the doors and see for ourselves?” This Hardy Boy fantasy was getting the best of me. Actually, the idea of looking inside didn’t sound bad.