David Robbins - Miami Run

Blade and Rikki were a foot away.

“What, exactly , are you doing?” Blade calmly inquired.

Hickok mustered a feeble grin. “Who? Me?”

The guitarist, unaware that the guy in buckskins, the giant, and the man in black were together, took a step toward the giant. “Stop him! He’s tryin’ to rob me!”

Blade glanced from the musician to the gunman. “Is that right? You’re robbing him in broad daylight in the middle of a park?”

“You said we need money,” Hickok responded.

“But I didn’t intend for you to steal it,” Blade said.

The guitarist stared from the giant to the guy in buckskins. “You two know each other?”

“How else will we get the money?” Hickok asked Blade.

“You two know each other!” the musician reiterated.

“We’ll find a way,” Blade stated. “First, we see if one of these buses goes to Miami Beach. Then we’ll find out how much it will cost for the three of us. After we know how much we’ll need, we’ll find a way to get it.”

“You want to take the bus to Miami Beach?” the guitarist questioned in astonishment.

“I figured this yahoo could spare a few coins,” Hickok commented.

The musician’s face was turning a light shade of crimson. His eyes glared from one to the other. “All this over the lousy bus?” He snatched the cup. “You morons!”

Hickok looked at the guitarist. “What’s eatin’ you?”

“What’s eatin’ me?” the musician exploded. “I’ll tell you what’s eatin’ me! You scared me half to death over a lousy bus fare! You threatened to blow out my brains for a bus ride!”

“I was only joshin’ you,” Hickok said.

The guitarist became madder. He leaned his guitar against his left leg and began sorting through the coins in the cup. “Of all the dumbass, screwball, wacked-out things I’ve ever heard—”

“I don’t see why you’re being so touchy,” Hickok remarked. “You’re still in one piece.”

The musician’s mouth moved, but no words came out. He held three large silver coins in his left hand and jabbed his arm at the gunman.

“Here!”

“What are they?” Hickok asked.

“What do they look like?” the guitarist retorted. “They’re your bus fare.”

“What?”

“You heard me!” the musician snapped. “It costs a buck to ride the shuttle bus from here to Miami Beach. There’s three bucks here. Enough for all three of you.”

“We don’t want your money,” Hickok stated.

“Take it.”

“No. You keep it.”

“Take the damn money!” the guitarist shouted.

“We’ll take it,” Blade said, stepping up and palming the coins. “And thank you.”

“Don’t thank me!” the musician barked. “I don’t want your gratitude! I just want you out of my life!”

“We’re going,” Blade assured him.

“And take this lunatic with you!” the guitarist demanded, nodding at the gunman.

“Who are you callin’ a lunatic?” Hickok responded.

“Get him out of here!”

Blade tugged on the gunfighter’s right arm. “Come on.”

Hickok shook his head and turned toward the buses. “Some people have no sense of humor.”

“May I help you?”

Blade smiled at the elderly desk clerk, then scrutinized the dozens of small wooden boxes on the wall to the rear of the front desk. “Yes. My name is John Clayton. I believe some forms were dropped off for me.”

“Forms?” the desk clerk said, turning toward the boxes. His balding pate was nonetheless slicked and combed, his cerulean suit immaculate.

“No one mentioned any forms—”

“The Narcs were supposed to leave them here for me,” Blade explained.

The desk clerk wheeled. “The Narcs! So you’re the gentleman!”

“Yes.”

The desk clerk stepped to the boxes and removed several folded sheets of paper from a box on the lower left. “It isn’t every day the Narcs drop off something.”

“I hope it wasn’t an inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience?” the desk clerk repeated, sounding shocked at the suggestion. “Helping the Narcs is an honor!” He placed the papers on the counter.

“Thanks,” Blade said, taking them and starting to leave.

“Will you be staying the night?” the desk clerk inquired hopefully. “I can reserve a suite for you right now.”

“I’ll think it over,” Blade said. He walked to the front entrance to the Ocean View and pushed through the glass doors.

Rikki and Hickok were waiting on the top step.

“Did they leave the papers?” Rikki asked.

Blade nodded, unfolding the three sheets.

“I don’t see why we’re diddlin’ around with this nonsense,” Hickok remarked. “Are you plannin’ to file a formal complaint?”

“No,” Blade said.

“I know you,” Hickok stated. “You don’t do nothin’ without a reason.

What gives?”

“Your great plan, remember?”

“My plan?”

“To find a bigwig and force whoever it is to take us to the Masters,” Blade reminded the gunfighter.

“How’s this tie in?”

Blade examined the top sheet, a white piece of paper entitled FORM 1073 CITIZEN COMPLAINT. The second sheet, another white paper, bore a bold, black PAGE TWO at the top. He checked the third and final sheet and smiled. This one was a yellow paper, and handwritten in the middle of the page was the information he wanted. “Bingo.”

“What is it?” Hickok questioned.

“The name of Fowler’s Dealer and his address,” Blade replied.

Hickok grinned. “Now I get it.”

“The Narc wanted us to fill out the forms and drop them in the mail,” Blade said. “We’ll go him one better. We’ll deliver the forms personally.”

“So where does this big-time Dealer live?” Hickok inquired.

Blade read from the paper. “The Oasis Resort Hotel. It’s on Collins Avenue.”

“We’re on Ocean Drive now, right?” Hickok brought up.

“Yeah,” Blade said.

“How far is Collins Avenue from here?” Rikki queried.

“Let’s find out the same way we found this place,” Blade responded.

“Ask.”

The Warriors descended the half-dozen concrete steps to the street.

“Miami Beach sure comes alive at night,” Hickok commented.

Blade was thinking the same thing. The avenues and streets had been much less crowded two and a half hours ago when the shuttle bus from Bayfront Park had deposited them on Dade Boulevard after crossing the Venetian Causeway. The late afternoon heat had instilled a lethargy in the inhabitants, a sluggishness promptly dispelled by the enveloping shroud of darkness. Now, with a few stars faintly discernible in the inky sky, Miami Beach was a vibrant, hustling hub of activity. People thronged to the sidewalks. Vehicles packed the thoroughfares. And there was a distinct difference evident, as if those who roamed Miami Beach at night were a breed apart from the daytime dwellers. The clothing worn by the passersby consisted more of tailored suits and dresses instead of black leather and jeans. Even the cars prowling from block to block betrayed the meticulous care they received by their shiny paint jobs and gleaming bumpers and chrome strips.

A pair of women approached the Warriors, one in a sheer black dress, the second in a yellow blouse and short red skirt. Their hair was stylishly coiffured, their nails painted red, their lips a striking scarlet.

Hickok nodded at them and smiled. “Howdy.”

They stopped. The brunette in the red skirt raked the Warrior with a critical gaze. “Howdy yourself, handsome.”

“We need some help,” Hickok told her.

The woman laughed and nudged her friend. “I’ll bet you do, lover!”