A Mighty Fortress (36 page)

The streets were crowded now with bar hoppers and partygoers. Expensive cars with makes I couldn’t recognize were lined up to park in the garage across the street. Batch was two doors down. It was going on nine o’clock, prime time at this place. It looked like Batch was where recent graduates congregated—about what I’d expect to see on Howard Avenue in Tampa on a Friday night. The bar was enormous, seemingly as deep as the hotel I was staying in. The restaurant was lined with booths, some of which had their own taps in the middle of the table. That I liked, though the prospect of getting a seat didn’t look good. But then I found another bar in the back where a couple had just left. I grabbed an open stool and got to work.

The beer selection was pleasing. In addition to the usual suspects, the big “craft” breweries that for all intents and purposes had become corporate giants, they also had a few nice Florida selections. Even Tampa’s Cigar City appeared on tap. I was happier to see a few from Funky Buddha, a brewery up in Fort Lauderdale I’d tried a few times at beer festivals. I thought I’d start with their Florida Hefeweizen.
 

Then it was on to the menu. The wait staff here were more, well, Miami than Tampa. The beer scene in Tampa draws many a pierced septum and sleeves of tattoos, not to mention those large ear studs that stretch out the lobe. Here the wait staff, as well as the clientele, was more preppy and cleaner. I guess ‘Greek’ would be the right word, as in this seemed to be a mecca for former frat boys who were now making six figures and living the good life.
 

The menu was impressive, and took some time to study. If there was any downside to it, it was that there were too many options. But deep inside, I knew the winner from the start: the grilled brisket burger. I ordered it without the bun, added a fried egg, and substituted greens for the fries. Val would have been proud I was eating Paleo (as long as I kept the beer hidden).

With the important decisions made, I connected to the Wi-Fi and logged into Accurint. I’d pushed Kara hard to remember the last name of the Brian guy, Scalzo’s connection to the porn industry. I knew she’d struggled to remember whether it was Blane or Blare, and now I was forgetting whether she ever made up her mind. So I started searching Brian Blane and found nothing promising.
 

However, there were actually three Brian Blares in the Miami area. One was in his sixties and one was in his forties, leaving one in his early twenties. The youngest Brian Blare was probably the son of the oldest. I figured the one in his forties was of no relation. The youngest and oldest were both parties to a lease with the Mercedes Benz corporation for a 2013 SL550. Not a bad ride for a 22-year- old. They’d also at one time shared an address in Coral Gables, along with one Attila Gomez, and the youngest Brian also had an address on Biscayne Bay, in a nice new condo development. The younger appeared as an officer of several limited liability companies. A few searches through Sunbiz, Florida’s Secretary of State’s website, all showed his Biscayne Bay address as these companies’ principal places of business. The one that caught my attention most was BBBJ Productions.

Accurint also returned a cell number for the younger Brian. I tried it. It went straight to voicemail. Nothing identified it as Brian’s number; it was just a computer repeating the number. I didn’t leave a message.

I sent the juicier research findings and addresses to my iPhone just before dinner arrived. Having finished the Hefe, I thought Funky Buddha’s stout would go well with the grilled meat in front of me. That was a good call. The brisket burger was amazing. Juicy, tender, seasoned perfectly. So good I didn’t even miss the bun.
 

The bartender apparently could see the glee dancing in my eyes. “You like that, eh?” he yelled over the loud hip-hop and drunken frat boys.

“Absolutely,” I said while chewing.

He was obviously proud of what they served. “First time here?” He had a nice, thick black beard that would’ve made me envious when I had mine. Tonight, I couldn’t even stand to look at it.

I nodded. “Yeah, here on business.” I chewed some more and cleared my mouth. “My associate recommended the place. I think he comes here a lot. Brian Blare. You know him?”

He shrugged. “Should I?”

“I guess he’s not that much of a regular.”

“Maybe I’d know him if I saw him.” He shrugged again and walked off.

It didn’t hurt to try.

That night I dreamed of the kid from Texas again. Maybe I was growing weary of my dreams, but it was probably the least stressful dream I’d ever had about him. It was definitely the most surreal. We weren’t in Fallujah, and there was no artillery firing around us. Instead, he’d joined me at Tacos Isabel. The picnic table was lined with bottles of Corona, and a feast had been prepared for us, large platters heaped with vegetables and grilled meats and shreds of things I didn’t recognize. The platter was lined with soft tortillas.

I didn’t know how to eat the food before us. He apparently knew that, because he was laughing at me. So I grabbed a beer and squeezed a lime into it. He laughed at that too.

“What’s so funny? “I asked.

He shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“I guess not.”

He produced two glasses, little tumblers. They were filled with red wine. “Have some of this,” he said.

I shook my head. “That’s not my thing.”

He shrugged. “Have it your way.”

“Why’d you do that?” I asked.

He smiled at me. “Why do you think?”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Wasn’t my decision to make.”

“I was ready.”

“Wasn’t your decision to make.”

“I think I’m ready now,” I said.

He shook his head. “Still not your decision to make.” He looked at the platter. “Besides, you have to eat first.”

I looked at the platter, and the grilled meat. “Is that what I think it is?”

He nodded and wrapped a tortilla around a hunk of meat. Then he set it down. “But first,” he said, “shouldn’t you wash?”

“Wash?”

Before I knew it, he was kneeling in front of me, and my feet were bare. He held a rag and was about to touch my feet.
 

I moved them under the table. “What are you doing?”

“I’m washing your feet.”

“They don’t need washed.”

He raised his eyes, and I saw a hint of disappointment in them. “You have to be cleansed, Milo.”

“Of what?” I asked. Then I felt the table shift, so I glanced behind me.
 

A glowing woman in a white linen shirt and Capri pants took a seat opposite me.

“Are you who I think you are?” I asked.

She nodded and smiled.
 

“You’re not as scary as he described.”

“I know,” she said gently.

“I’m dreaming about you because of what he said.”

She shrugged. “If you say so.”

“What do
you
say?”

“I say you need to be careful tomorrow.”

“You aren’t going to tell me what to do?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way. You still have to figure it out on your own.”

“But we’re here to remind you of the truth and the power,” they both seemed to say in unison, along with a chorus of other voices.

“The truth and the power?” I asked.

“That’s right,” she said. “The truth and the power.”

I felt chilled in my sleep as I watched Betty Hunter fade away in a blizzard of lights and swarming gnats.

I awoke Saturday morning to the shrieking of a garbage truck emptying a dumpster across the street. Still groggy, I stared out my hotel window. A few people were on their way to work, but most were just enjoying leisurely Saturday morning strolls and bike rides. I wanted to fall back into bed, but instead I took a shower, dressed my wounds, and put on my old clothes.

Downstairs, the lobby was filled with diners. As I made my way to the dining room, I glanced toward the concierge’s desk, wondering if he could help me find a good car rental place; but he was busy, so I moved on toward breakfast. I like Hampton Inns for their decent free breakfasts, but this one was a cut above, with sliced meats and cheeses—the type of spread you’d expect to see in Europe. As soon as I saw the buffet, though, the brisket still sitting in my stomach reminded me that I wasn’t really hungry. Then I remembered my dream, and my stomach soured even more. The dark roast coffee was well received, though.

I sat skimming the
Miami Herald
, checking out the wardrobes of the locals. This reminded me that I needed to go shopping.
 

After I’d finished my coffee, the same guy was still talking to the concierge as I passed. So I slowed down. When he turned, he glanced at me and smiled, as though he thought I’d been watching him and admiring him. In a way, I guess I had, at least the way a movie actor admires the subject he’s playing.

He walked by and disappeared into an elevator.

“Are you enjoying your stay with us, Mr. Porter?” the attendant asked me.

I took a few steps toward the counter. “Yeah, I just need to do some shopping this morning.” She glanced at the clothes I was wearing, and nodded as if to say,
Yes, you do indeed
. “Where could I find clothes like that guy was wearing?”

She glanced toward the elevator lobby like she was rewinding footage of the well-dressed man. She smiled and nodded. “You should try OFY, at the shops. It’s about a mile away.”

“Perfect,” I said. Half an hour later, I confirmed that the place was indeed perfect. I’d made it there before breaking much of a sweat. The salesman was friendly, much too happy to help me find two outfits. The one I decided to wear that day was checkered shorts with a long-sleeve linen shirt.
 

He looked down at my Chuck Taylors, which reminded me that something had to be done about my shoes. I agreed, and he set me up with a nice pair of slip-on loafers. Then he stood me in front of a mirror and we both agreed there was one missing piece: the eyes. I flinched at the price tag, but the shades were the perfect finishing touch. My old clothes went into a shopping bag.
 

I signed my name to the credit card receipt and promised to pay $873.65 for these two outfits, shoes, and sunglasses. While I was confident I’d never be reimbursed for this purchase, I reminded myself that I hadn’t splurged on myself lately.

The temperature had risen about ten degrees during the half hour I spent in OFY. I began to question the logic of wearing a long-sleeved shirt in this weather, even if my sleeves were rolled up to my elbows. But the fabric worked well in the heat and humidity, and seemed to absorb my sweat.

I dropped off my shopping bags in the hotel room and took another look at my new appearance in the mirror. The shaved head worked. I removed the bandage again and studied my stitches. It was still too early to tell whether the beard would grow back around the wound. Regardless, for now, I was no longer Milo Porter; meet the Twenty-First Century Sonny Crocket.

Now all I needed was a ride. Uber seemed to be hopping in Miami; a BMW 330i picked me up in less than five minutes, then dropped me off outside the Biscayne condo within another ten. It was a waterfront building, though I couldn’t tell what the body of water was. A bay of some sort, which I assumed connected to the Atlantic somewhere nearby. Whereas downtown Tampa really only had a handful of condo projects, Miami was filled with them as far as the eye could see; and they seemed to be building more, regardless of what the housing market had done in 2008.

“Can I help you?” The attendants here wore polyester shirts the color of burnt toast, with orange stripes—something you’d expect to see on a
Star Trek
character.

“I’m here to see Brian Blare.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“I doubt it,” was all I could say.

He tried calling; it didn’t take him long to hang up. “He’s not answering. Probably doing some traveling before classes resume.”

“Classes?”

He nodded. “At UM. Most of our residents go there.”

“You mean, these are college kids, living in a high-rise condo?”

He smiled. “College, med school, law school.”

“A real hard-knock life.”

He shrugged.

I sat in a Starbucks connected to the lobby for about an hour and endured two iced red-eyes. They cooled and energized, but also made me hungry. I saw no sign of Blare, but did have a few false alarms. It would have helped to know the color of his Benz, because I saw a few dozen SL550s. Most were black or red, but I also saw at least one silver one. Regardless, I had no way to follow those cars, so I ventured across the street for brunch. I gave it another hour, keeping a close look on the building across the street while I took my time with an omelet filled with chorizo, green chiles, and avocado. I paid my check and returned to the receptionist at Blare’s condo.

“You mind trying Mr. Blare again?” I asked.

Without answering, he dialed again. A moment later, he hung up and said, “Sorry.”

So I decided to give the parents’ house a try. For that, I needed a car. I picked up a nice nondescript gray Honda Accord from Enterprise. Once I had the car, I put the Coral Gables address in Maps.

The senior Blares lived in a gated Mediterranean mansion on a quiet street lined with giant tropical trees that looked like relics from a time when dinosaurs roamed the earth. A high stone wall surrounded the perimeter of their property; a wrought iron gate blocked a driveway covered in stone pavers.
 

I parked across the street a few houses down, under a nearby banyan tree that seemed to traverse two adjoining lots. Regardless of who owned it, the tree cast a deep shadow over the car, lowering the temperature some, but did little to help with the humidity. Still, I had a good view of the Blares’ driveway. Peering through binoculars was tricky, but I was able to get a look inside the gate. The closest vehicle was a black Range Rover, which seemed to be standard issue in the area. That was the only vehicle I could see, but I caught a glimpse of the tires of two more cars.