A Shark in Calle Ocho (5 page)

Back at home, Mary Catherine Tenish exploded with emotion. She ran to her room as her hired help whispered in Spanish. She fell on the bed, covered her face with pillows and screamed at the top of her lungs.
How could she be so ignorant, so greedy that she would get involved with someone like Antonio LaCruz?
she asked herself repeatedly. What was she going to do? For the first time in her life, she had no idea what direction to go or how to deal with a terrible situation. She’d gone too far in her quest for power and money. She put her face back in her pillow and screamed until she was hoarse.

Chapter Five

The average human has thirty-two teeth. The real estate agent who handled the office space Bob had rented seemed to have sixty-four, and she loved to show them all.

“This is a lovely place,” Bob remembered her saying, particularly how she drawled the word “lovely.” She was like the Vanna White of real estate as she floated across the room with arms extended and fingers erect.

“Don’t you just love it?” she’d said, spinning toward him and coming in for the kill with contract in hand and teeth blaring. “There’s just some itsy bitsy paperwork to fill out.

“You know, I can do that for you.” She’d placed the paperwork on the table, then put her hands on her hips and cocked her head, as if to show off all of her “assets.”

Bob swallowed and cleared his throat.

“Where do I sign?” The teeth appeared again.

The building had two office spaces. They were facing each other with a hall separating them. Bob’s neighbor was Alita Garza, a flower arranger who specialized in fake flowers. Matter of fact, she was so specialized in the fake flower field that is all she handled. Thousands of plastic flowers filled her office and poured into the hallway. While moving into his office Bob tripped several times over the boxes in the hallway. There were so many flowers they actually gave a scent. It wasn’t a pleasant scent, but it wasn’t putrid. Bob thought it didn’t exactly give a rough and tough atmosphere that a bounty hunter office should have, but it would have to do.

After moving the final piece of office furniture in, Bob collapsed in it. He looked around and shook his head. He was so thin but still so out of shape. He only had a desk, a small gray filing cabinet and the rolling chair he was sitting in.

He quickly straightened up, slapped his hands on the desk and said, “Oh well—time to get to work as a bounty hunter.” He giggled then quickly stopped himself.
Bounty hunters don’t giggle.

A knock at the door interrupted Bob’s moment. He rose from his chair and went to answer it. He couldn’t see who it was because the glass pane was opaque. When he opened it, he saw Miss Garza in all her 252 pounds of glory.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said through two pieces of watermelon-flavored Hubba Bubba gum. “Here are some flowers.” She handed Bob a bright mix of daffodils and tulips. Miss Garza wore a floral print muumuu. The flowers were huge, and suddenly Bob found himself humming the theme to Hawaii Five-O. Her black horn-rimmed glasses had a silver chain attached to them that lopped behind her head, which was covered with short, loosely curled jet-black hair. Her only jewelry was a large cross that rested in her deep cleavage.

“I’m so happy that I have a new neighbor,” Miss Garza said with a high-pitched, heavily accented voice. She moved her head from left to right, as if looking for someone who wasn’t there. “I think the last tenants were on drugs.”

“Really,” Bob said, concerned, although it wasn’t long before he learned that Miss Garza thought everybody under thirty was on drugs.

“Yes,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, I have to get busy. Lots of orders you know.”

It’s great to know somebody that knows somebody
, Bob thought. It had been a month, and no jobs had materialized as yet, until his Uncle Leon told him about a bail bondsman who needed some immediate help. After he hung up the phone with his uncle, he rushed to Mac’s Bail Bonds. He tried not to act too excited when he entered, but it was written all over his face. The bail bondsman didn’t seem to notice. He was frantic because Mike Johnson hadn’t called in, nor would he answer his phone. Big Mike, as his friends called him, was wanted for drug trafficking, and if he jumped bail it would cost Mac $75,000. After a few short minutes, Bob had a picture and an address on NE 2nd Avenue where Big Mike was last seen. He looked at the picture, read Big Mike’s bio and quickly understood where he got his nickname. Mike Johnson was six-nine and weighed in at 320 pounds. He had a panther tattooed on his neck with a heart in his paw. In the picture, he was shaved bald and had what seemed to be a permanent scowl on his face. The sound of Mac interrupted Bob’s near panic attack. Mac was stuttering he was so nervous.

“Can you find him?”

“Yes, Sir, I sure can,” Bob said with a salute. His smile belied the fact that he was scared out of his wits on the inside.

“Oh heavenly Father,” Mac said, hands clasped in prayer.

During the ride over to the neighborhood, Bob’s stomach was in knots, his hands were sweating, and his mind was racing. He was in a hurry. During his training course, he remembered the instructor saying, “Time is against you. It’s your biggest obstacle and your greatest enemy. Everyone who jumps bail is on the run, and they have a head start! When you’re on a case, put it in overdrive!”

Yeah, overdrive,
Bob thought. He picked up his cellphone and started making calls. In each case, the response to the call was the same—“The number you have dialed has been disconnected”—until the very last one: Loretta Johnson, Big Mike’s grandmother.

“Hello?” an elderly lady answered.

“Hey, let me speak to Big Mike.”

“He ain’t here. He’s gone to Mae Mae’s store to get me some bread.”

“All right, holler at ya later,” Bob replied in his best urban dialect.

“K, Honey.” She hung up.

Bob’s fear turned into pure adrenaline. Mae Mae’s was located in the neighborhood he was headed to, on 79th Street. He knew what Big Mike looked like, and he had his weapons: a Streetwise stun gun, the Wildfire pepper spray and a pair of handcuffs. It wouldn’t exactly down an elephant, but maybe it would do the job on Big Mike. Maybe.

Bob turned onto the 79th Street exit and was headed to Mae Mae’s with his single Hispanic station blaring through the speakers. It had only been five minutes since he talked with the grandmother, so he was sure Big Mike was still there or close by.

As Bob thought about his current situation, he shook his head. Just a few months ago he was an accountant going nowhere. Now he was a bounty hunter going to Mae Mae’s neighborhood grocery store on a hunt for Big Mike.

He took in his surroundings. It was 6:00 p.m., and people filled the streets, shopping at local stores, buying groceries for their evening meal. Palm trees planted close to the sidewalks gave little relief to the intense evening heat. Colorful murals painted on storefronts gave Miami a brightness like no other city in America. Bob was proud he was a Miamian.

Bob’s heart suddenly started beating frantically as Mae Mae’s came into view. The store was painted pink on top and blue on the bottom, with a bright red awning. It had a mural of an elderly Hispanic man with a dead chicken in his hands about to be plucked. Corn and wheat were painted around the entrance with “
para comidas deliciosas entre aquí
” printed above it—“For delicious food enter here.”

Bob pulled the beauty queen over and quickly got out and walked across the street. He breathed deeply and tried not to walk too fast, thinking,
Don’t draw attention to yourself. This is your weapon. It’s not your muscles or your mind—it’s the ability to blend in and become invisible in the crowd.
And that’s exactly what Bob did.

Bob entered Mae Mae’s. It had dusty wood floors and old-style metal display counters with a little rust on them. Down the sides of walls above the counters were painted political sayings about freeing Cuba. In the background the latest R&B hits were playing. Above the cash register was a faded red, white and blue sign advertising Faygo drinks. Rust was eating the sign too. He thought,
That’s sounds good.

He shook his head and muttered, “Concentrate, Bob, concentrate.” He walked to the drinks cooler and slid the doors open, letting the cold air sweep across his face drying the thin layer of perspiration on his forehead. Reaching for a strawberry Faygo, he caught a glimpse of Big Mike checking out. Unfortunately for Bob, Mike’s description was dead on. He looked all of his six-nine and 320, but what the paperwork failed to mention were the tree trunk arms and the dinner plate hands. He was wearing a blue T-shirt that he filled to capacity with mounds of muscle, and like a good grandson he had the loaf of bread—and a forty-ounce for himself.

Bob quickly grabbed the Faygo, walked calmly to the register and stood beside Big Mike. The top of Bob’s head was just over Big Mike’s shoulder. Big Mike didn’t look his way. Bob was right—he
was
invisible. That would play well for his scheme.

The young Latina didn’t know what was about to go down. Smacking on gum, she quoted the cash register.

“$6.05, please.” Big Mike handed the girl seven dollars.

“Keep the change,” he said with a half-cocked smile and a wink.

“Uh-huh,” she said between smacks, never looking up and slightly swaying to the beat of the background music.

“What’s up, Big Mike?” Bob said before he took a swig of Faygo. He wiped his mouth with his wrist. Making eye contact and trying not to stutter, he said, “I’m with Mac’s Bail Bonds. You jumped bail, so you gotta come with me.”

Big Mike looked at Bob from top to bottom, let out a grunt and took off out of the store, nearly knocking down two elderly Japanese tourists standing at the entrance. Bob ran after Big Mike, who was surprisingly quick on his feet.

“I think that went well. I’m still alive,” he said to himself, already starting to breathe hard.

Weaving in and out of the crowd, Mike tried to cause an obstruction by turning over a rolling tamale stand. The vendor cursed in Spanish and waved his fists in the air. Bob clumsily rolled over the overturned stand and slipped on tamales. He struggled to get up as the vendor now took his frustrations out on Bob. He looked up to see Big Mike get hit by a pink moped as he was sprinting across the street. The impact flipped Mike onto the pavement, and the gray-haired old woman driving the moped, who might have topped 180 pounds, landed on top him, knocking him senseless. Bob fled the vendor and ran to the accident. When he got to Big Mike, the woman was trying to sit up.

“Move!” Bob shouted. She rolled over with eyes wide and arms flailing. Bob shouted, “Don’t go anywhere, Mike! You are being apprehended by A-1 Personal Recovery!”

Big Mike could only grunt “Uh” as Bob pulled out the pepper spray. and the woman retrieved her purse. She started swinging it at Mike, landing blow after blow on his head. Mike, still senseless from the crash, could only mumble and shield himself with his hand. Bob never got a shot off with the spray—his hands wouldn’t stay still enough to aim.

“You’re a bad man, and you should have been whipped more by your momma,” the angry lady said between swings.

“Ma’am, excuse me, Ma’am,” Bob said. “Can I put my handcuffs on him now?”

“I don’t know, can you?” she answered.

“Oh, I’m sorry.
May
I put my handcuffs on him now?” Bob said, thinking she must be a retired teacher or librarian.

“Yes, dear, you may.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Bob reached down with shaking hands and snapped on the cuffs.

“Mr. Mike Johnson, you are being apprehended by A-1 Personal Recovery. I will now take you to the Miami Dade Police Department, where they will book you on new counts, including jaywalking.” Bob didn’t know about the jaywalking part, but he thought it sounded good. He’d caught his first perp—and with only a little help from a retired librarian on a moped.

The booking in the police station went smoothly, except for a few snickers from the officers as Bob walked in and announced he was the new bounty hunter in town. It didn’t help that Big Mike towered over him by about a foot.

“Is this the dude that was run over by the moped?” an officer said, trying to hold back his laughter.

“Yeah, I guess I had a little help apprehending this one,” Bob said sheepishly, thinking about how news traveled quickly around the streets of Miami.

“Hold on,” a pudgy man said, looking up from the arrest report. “Did you say this guy was run over by a moped?”

“Yeah, while running away from this shrimp,” the officer said as he pointed at Bob with his thumb. He quickly brought his hand up to his mouth. “Excuse me—I meant bounty hunter,” he added sarcastically. Everyone burst into laughter, and even Big Mike joined in. Bob spotted a crack in the counter and wanted to crawl into it.

A question from the pudgy man drew Bob out of the crack.

“Excuse me, Sir—you apprehended a perp with a moped?”

Bob pulled himself together and tried to keep a serious face.

“What’s it to you?”

“I apologize. I’m Joe Curtis, reporter with the
Miami
Herald
,” the pudgy man said as he extended his hand. “I work the police beat.”

“Nice to meet you, Joe,” Bob said, shaking his hand.

“Could I ask you a few questions?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Bob answered a series of questions about who he was, his background, Mike’s background, and of course contact information for the elderly woman, who indeed had turned out to be a retired librarian.

After the interview, Bob said farewell to the officers. In return, the officers all gave Bob a hearty good-bye, calling out, “Goodbye, mighty bounty hunter. Say hello to your sidekick when you visit the nursing home.” Bob’s favorite was, “After you catch Jack the Ripper, could you do my taxes?”

Bob let the ribbing bounce off. He was too excited about the story that would be in tomorrow morning’s
Herald
. It would put him on the map. He figured maybe six hundred thousand people read the newspaper each day, and they would see the article and know he’s in business. Some of them had to be bail bondsmen in need of a bounty hunter. Images of big money flashed through his head and put a smile on his face.