Don Bruns - Stuff to die for

James was hot. I could almost see steam rising from the top of his head. “Honest to God, Eugene, no one else can know anything about this. Do you understand the severity of what we’ve got here?” That’s about as serious as I’ve ever heard him.

“I don’t have to tell her anything. I can just ask her for Jackie’s number. Tell her you left your cell phone behind or we’re missing something.”

He thought about it for a moment. “No. It’s not Jackie Fuentes’s mail, is it?”

“Technically, no.”

“Whose mail is it?” James was pissed.

“It was addressed to Rick Fuentes.”

“Exactly. Fuck Jackie Fuentes. She won’t see us, we’ll go to the end user. Remember Em telling us he’d moved into a condo over in Bal Harbor?”

I did.

“We’re taking it back to Mr. Fuentes.”

“Jesus, James. That complicates things. We’ve got a load of his stuff in the back of the truck, and our client is his estranged wife. Now you want to go to the old man and admit that we not only have his stuff, but we’ve been opening his mail?”

“Whose mail is it?”

“Come on, man. This is so fucked up. You can’t be-”

“Whose mail is it?”

“He’s going to be so pissed. And Jackie is going to be in trouble, and Em is never going to let me forget this.”

“Whose mail is it?”

“Rick Fuentes’s.”

He swerved, avoiding an almost invisible pothole in the road. “I think it’s time we deliver Mr. Fuentes’s mail. Come on, Skip, it’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

“We put it in the storage unit.”

“Can’t. Fingerprints are all over it. Jackie knows we were carrying the mail.”

“We go to the cops, James. Now.”

“Like hell! My whole life was fucked by the cops. Because my old man’s business partner split with the money, the cop s arrested my dad. The cops threw him in jail when he didn’t know a goddamned thing. They convicted him and put him in prison for five years, Skip. Five ball-breaking, rip-your-guts-out years. That’s the way it was. You think I want to go to the cops with my fingerprints all over this thing? You think I want to put this finger and envelope in that storage unit so somebody can come back and claim we were involved in some sort of mutilation or murder? You think I want one damned thing to do with the law? You’ve got another thought coming. Mr. Fuentes is going to get his mail. Tonight. You on board?” He kept his eyes straight ahead, driving, as far as I could tell, without a destination. Steam was just about rolling out of his ears.

For some reason I thought about our young Bahamian friend, Angel. Angel seemed to be high on drugs most of the time or totally blown away on alcohol, but we both considered him a friend. He’s learned to function in society in spite of his addictions, or as he calls them, his afflictions. Regardless of what they are, or in spite of what they are, Angel has a pretty good head on his shoulders. Angel can be very philosophical at times and I lay it on his intelligence and intuitive nature. He also reads a lot and memorizes these passages. They often have relevance-unlike James’s movie quotes. James says it’s the drugs he takes, but I think Angel is brilliant.

I’ve heard Angel spout off philosophical sayings, and most of those times I’d have to agree with James. It was the drugs. However, one of Angel’s aphorisms immediately came to mind when James asked if I was on board.

“No task is a long one but the task on which one dare not start. That task becomes a nightmare.”

I know, it’s a stretch to believe a person high on chemical substances can think like that or remember it from verse, but he does. That’s Angel. But I was still confused how he knew about the hauling job. James must have mentioned it and then forgotten. There were many nights when that was more than possible.

“All right. I’m on board. How do you propose to find this Rick Fuentes? I mean, we could call Jackie and-”

“No. Can’t call Jackie. Let’s keep her out of this.”

“All right. We know he lives in the Bal Harbor area. We could-” I was out of ideas.

“Call information.”

I stared at James as he concentrated on the road. We were headed down to the Bal Harbor area. I recognized the well-lit streets with high-end shops, perfectly groomed palms planted at regular intervals, and elegant high-rises that looked out over the harbor.

“Dial it.”

411.

“City and state please.”

“Miami, Florida. Bal Harbor-a listing for Rick Fuentes.”

It was a recording. The operator picked up. “Miami?”

“Yeah.”

“Name?”

“Rick Fuentes.”

“Please hold while we dial that number for you.”

Son of a bitch. That charge would show up on my bill. Minutes and information charges, these things kept adding up.

The phone rang. “Shit, James. He’s actually listed. What the hell do I say to him?”

“The truth.”

“What?” I was near panic at this moment. Rick Fuentes could pick up the phone at any second and I’d be left going, “Ah, uh, ah, uh… .”

“Can you just tell him that we have some of his mail and we’d like to deliver it? Would that be so hard?”

“No. I can do that.” Well thought out. I had to hand it to my man.

James pulled over to the side of the street. We were in the area. Neither of us had a clue how to navigate in this well-to-do neighborhood. I’d been here once with Em. We shopped at Saks Fifth Avenue. She shopped at Saks Fifth Avenue. I didn’t spend a penny except for the six bucks for parking and the forty-dollar lunch. Two sandwiches and a shared salad. This was one expensive neighborhood.

“Hello. We can’t come to the phone right now. Please, leave a message and we’ll call you as soon as possible.”

Was there an original message anywhere in the world? One that said. “Hey, taking a crap, but once I’m done, I’d love to talk to you.” Or one I’d almost done at our apartment in Carol City. “We have caller ID. We know who you are. If we wanted to talk to you, we would have picked up, but obviously we didn’t. If you have anything at all that’s important to say, you’ll have to say it on the machine.”

“This is Skip Moore. I have some mail for Mr. Fuentes. If you’d like us to deliver it to you please call me back.” I left the cell number.

“We could sit here till next summer.”

“He’ll call back.”

“Next summer?”

“These rich guys. They need to stay in touch, but they screen their calls.”

“James, you are always sooooo wise.”

The phone rang.

“Hello.”

“This is Rick Fuentes.”

“We have some mail for you.”

“Bring it by. Here’s the address.”

Shit.

No task is a long one but the task on which one dare not start. That task becomes a nightmare.

C ARL ICAHN IS A FINANCIER who lives in the Indian Creek Village area. According to what I’ve found on the Internet, this man supposedly has had more financial encounters than most rich people. He proposed a hostile takeover of TWA and tried to take over Marvel Comics. I mean, Spiderman’s home turf? Come on. He owned the Sands in Vegas and a billion other companies. When we were driving by the mansions on the private island, James pointed out a palatial estate that he thought was Icahn’s. I’m not sure how he knew, but I think he’d seen pictures.

I was thinking about Icahn as we drove back into Bal Harbor following Rick Fuentes’ directions. I asked James what these people did for a living. Here were condos. Hundreds, maybe thousands of condos that started at maybe $800,000 and went up to four or five million. What the hell did all these people do?