Florida Heatwave (9 page)

“Strange, huh? Well, not having a job would be stranger. You gonna do the favor for Fat Man or not?”

Hawkins poured a cup of coffee for Nick, then one for himself. “Yeah, I guess. What other choice do I have?”

Nick reached for the noon edition of the
Tampa Tribune
left on a nearby table. “Look at this headline, man, Kennedy is coming to Tampa!”

“Bobby Kennedy?” Hawkins thought back to what Casano had said.

“Hell, no! The president, man! President Kennedy is coming to Tampa, and there’s gonna be a motorcade. Wonder if Jackie’s coming with him? Remember how we joked back in Key West that she was the biggest reason to vote for JFK? Let’s take the girls and go see ‘em.”

“Sure,” Hawkins replied, “but first, I gotta go see a stripper at Golden Palms and handle that favor.”

Casano’s stripper squeeze had been right. The woman seated across from him was one of the prettiest Hawkins had ever seen. Her brunette hair was pulled up into a beehive beneath an equally dark scarf, and both matched her dark eyes. Her only flaws were the black and blue bruises that ringed one eye and skipped across her cheeks, confirming that her boyfriend had carried out his threats.

A rumba tune from the jukebox competed with the Spanish chatter that filled the eatery. Smoke from cigarettes and cigars mingled with the spicy odor of sausage and peppers as they sizzled on the grill. Outside, street vendors hawked Cuban sandwiches, fresh flowers, and fruit stacked atop colorful carts lining the main avenue. Lunchtime in Ybor City, the biggest Cuban community outside Havana, meant at least a two-hour break.

Judith Wright had insisted on meeting Hawkins here. For decades, Ybor City had attracted cigar makers from South America and the Caribbean to fuel the dying art of cigar rolling. The Cuban revolution daily added to the Tampa population, gradually turning South Florida into a bilingual city. Since he’d arrived ten minutes earlier, she hadn’t spoken a word, and he wondered if maybe her English was limited. He checked his watch. In fifteen minutes his new Chevy sedan would be fair game for the meter maid. It was time for answers.

“Exactly what can I do to help you?” he asked.

“How long have you worked with the Tampa police, Detective Hawkins?” Her eyes flitted from diner to diner. She pulled a cigarette from her purse and followed it with a lighter.

“Three years, ma’am. Before that, I worked Key West.”

Her eyes rested on him as she dragged at the cigarette, setting its tip aglow. “Do you really know Tampa, Detective? I mean, do you know the players?”

Hawkins was tired. He was doing this only to make Casano happy. He really didn’t want the third degree from this dame. He looked at his watch. “I don’t have much time, Judith. Why don’t we just stop beating around the bush and get on with what you need?”

She nodded towards a booth in the back where a swarthy man with greasy gray hair sat staring at them as if hypnotized. “Tell me if you know that man, Detective Hawkins.”

Hawkins leaned out of the booth to get a better look before turning back to Judith, who had a broad smile plastered across her face. “No, I don’t, and I really don’t see what this has to do …”

Judith stubbed out her cigarette, gathered her purse and stood.

Hawkins grabbed her wrist. “Hey, you were the one who wanted to meet with someone! What’s going on here?”

Judith yanked her hand from his grasp. “The problem, Detective Hawkins, is you clearly don’t see what’s going on.”

She threw back her shoulders and walked to the booth where the man sat. The two appeared to exchange pleasantries before Judith slipped into the seat across from him, and he pulled out a package of smokes to offer her one.

Confused and irritated, Hawkins ripped several bills from his pocket and threw them on the table. He’d done his favor for Casano, and no doubt Fat

Man was laughing right now over a wild goose chase with a crazy dame.

The pink princess phone’s shrill ring woke Jeanette first. She mumbled a few words as she switched on a lamp, then punched him with the receiver. “It’s for you. A woman. She’s crying,” she muttered.

Hawkins sat up in a hurry and grabbed the phone. Racking sobs greeted him. “Who is this?” Hawkins demanded.

The sobs slowed to sniffles. “It’s me. Judith. I’m sorry, but I need to talk. Can we meet?”

Hawkins looked at the clock. It was almost 3 a.m. “Talk or play riddles again?”

Judith’s sobbing increased.

Jeanette glared at him, then rolled her eyes before turning her back and moving to the far side of the bed.

“Look, it’s late. My wife is angry. She gets upset when women call me in the middle of the night. Cut the games.” Hawkins wanted Jeanette to know this woman wasn’t a friend.

“I couldn’t talk to you at the diner. That man you didn’t know, he’s part of my problem. He’s following me. He’s a very dangerous man. I had to lie to him. I told him I was meeting you because you were from New Orleans. I told him you were my sister’s foster father.” “Do you even have a sister, Judith?”

The sniffles started again. “Yes, I do! She lives in New Orleans, too. That’s why I’m here, working at Golden Palms. The money I make keeps her in a convent boarding school. She’s a good kid. She won’t end up like me.” The sobs returned.

Hawkins glanced at his wife. Jeanette was cooling off, but she wasn’t going to like his going out to meet a crying woman one bit. Just another reason to curse his fat ass brother-in-law.

“You know the coffee joint near the bridge to Davis Island?”

“The Hot Pot?”

“That’s the one. Meet me there in twenty minutes.” Hawkins stood. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to tell me what’s wrong.”

Hawkins handed the phone back to a stony-faced Jeanette. “Hon, I gotta go, okay?”

Jeanette remained silent and still as Hawkins dressed and closed the bedroom door softly as he left.

Davis Island was one of Tampa’s wealthiest neighborhoods, a place where only really old money settled. The Hot Pot on Breland Avenue was where the island’s servants stopped to eat before and after work. It was one of the few Tampa eateries not connected to Trafficante’s network.

Judith sat in a worn booth in the back. Hawkins dropped onto the cracked and taped plastic seat opposite her, took off his snap-brim hat and set it aside.

Judith’s face was even more bruised than when he’d last seen her. Hawkins looked at his watch. “Talk, Judith. Time’s running out.”

She nervously stirred her coffee. “I need someone I can trust. I asked Betsy to help me, and she talked to her boyfriend. I guess he’s the one who sent you.”

Hawkins sighed. This was going to take a long time. “I’m here. Talk.”

She looked around the restaurant. They were alone, except for a young punk in a leather jacket who was more interested in combing his hair in the reflection of the front window than what they were discussing.

“That man you saw in the restaurant, the one you didn’t know?” Hawkins nodded.

“He works for Santos Trafficante. You know him?” Hawkins looked into the bruised eyes. “Judith, every cop in Tampa knows Trafficante. What’s this about?” “Do you know Julio Marchese?” “Your boyfriend?”

A smile began on her lips, then died. She looked up at him. “Girls like me don’t have boyfriends, Detective Hawkins.”

Hawkins shrugged. “Whatever. I take it Marchese laid the beating on you.” Tears filled her eyes, and she dabbed at them with a tissue. “The councilman and I had a disagreement. That’s why I needed someone to talk to. Marchese knows about something that’s gonna happen. Something bad. Next week. I hoped that maybe if I told the right person, they could stop it. If Marchese finds out I’m talking, he’ll kill me. He’ll kill anybody who knows me.” “Are you going to tell me what this thing is, Judith? I’m waiting.” The waitress returned to refill Judith’s coffee and ask Hawkins if he wanted a cup. Judith turned her face to the joint’s window, hiding her tears.

As the waitress left, she grabbed another tissue from her purse before the tears flowed again. She looked around for anyone who might overhear her, then whispered, “They’re gonna kill the president. He’s coming to Tampa next week. Trafficante is gonna have him shot!”

Hawkins leaned against the bridge’s railing and flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the murky waters of Tampa Bay. Daylight was still a good hour away, and fog hung low along the walkway.

“Johnny Casano pay you enough money to toss away your smokes like that?” The voice belonged to a trenchcoated man, his dark collar buttoned up to ward off the chill. His expensive fedora cast a shadow across his face, but Hawkins didn’t need to see his features. He knew this man.

“Pays me more than you do,” Hawkins replied, reaching into his coat for another smoke. He offered one to the man, who refused it.

“So they think they’re going to kill Kennedy,” the man whispered.

Hawkins pushed his snap-brim back on his forehead. Twenty-four hours had passed since Judith had laid everything out to him. “What did Washington say?”

“You should lay low. Pick up what information you can. Washington is handling everything else.”

“Will the president cancel his trip?”

“Hard to say. But you don’t need to worry about that. The big question now is whether or not things are too hot to keep you on the inside. You can walk away right now,” the man said.

As Hawkins turned to leave, the man laid a hand on his arm. “You sorry you ever signed on with us? You could have stayed down in the Keys.”

Hawkins hesitated, thinking about Jeanette and how little she knew about his work. Worse yet, what it would do to them if Casano was involved. “I’ll finish what I came here to do. I’m a cop,” he told the man before walking off into the fog.

A week later, every available law enforcement officer in the Tampa area was pulled in for added security for the Kennedy visit. Before daybreak, Hawkins and Casano had set up a surveillance post inside the storage area atop a five-story warehouse that overlooked downtown Tampa. Casano had tried repeatedly to get rid of Hawkins. First, Fat Boy had ordered coffee, then it was doughnuts. The last excuse had been an urgent need to phone the chief’s office. Hawkins expected Casano to demand a urinal next. The motorcade was due soon.

The dark warehouse reeked of dust and decay from hundreds of boxes filled with outdated records for the City of Tampa. The smoke from one of Casano’s cigars mixed with the smell from the greasy breakfast he’d fetched from the corner grocery hours ago.

Hawkins resented his assignment, especially since it paired him with his slimy brother-in-law and kept him away from the action. Every muscle in his body was tense. He wanted to be out on the street where he could do some good. Where he might have a chance to help the FBI save President Kennedy. Worse yet, he still couldn’t figure out why the FBI had permitted Kennedy to come to Tampa when they knew Santos Trafficante had concocted a plan to kill him—especially since the FBI hadn’t shut Trafficante’s intentions down. Still, Kennedy was the president, and while he liked to stare down every adversary, it was plain crazy to bait ‘em like this.

In the street below, office workers jostled with school children and housewives on the sidewalks. Several members of the John Birch Society carried posters pleading for Kennedy’s impeachment. A small group of Negroes stood far behind the crowd, carefully avoiding the whites as they sought space along the curb.

Casano, sweating profusely, mopped his face with his ever-present handkerchief and looked at the growing crowd.

“There woulda been more people if Jackie hadda come with him,” Casano declared. He used old Army binoculars to survey the street north and south. The muffled sound of snare drums wafted up through the huge open window. “They can’t be far away.”

Casano turned from the window to face Hawkins squarely. “You and I gotta have a talk here.”

Hawkins stepped beside Casano where he could get a good view of the president out the window. “So, talk,” Hawkins replied.

The snick of a revolver froze Hawkins.

“Don’t move and put both ya hands behind your back,” Casano instructed. He backed several steps away and kicked some old boxes aside. Out of the corner of his eye, Hawkins saw him pick up a walkie-talkie. Casano keyed it and began to talk.

“Unit Two. This is Three. You copy?”

A raspy voice answered over static. “Yeah, we got him in our sights. If he moves, he’s gonna be dead … just like Kennedy.”

Casano sat the walkie-talkie down so he could wipe the rivlets of sweat from his fat jowls. “You hear that, bright boy? Don’t move a muscle. We’ve got a rifleman trained right at ya.”

Hawkins’s eyes scanned the buildings across the street. He saw no one. “What’re you up to, Johnny?”

Casano shifted his revolver to his left hand, then kicked boxes aside to pull something out into the open.

“Turn around,” Casano ordered.

Hawkins turned slowly, his eyes opening wide at the sight of a rifle, its scope glinting in the noonday sun that shone through the bare windows.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Hawkins demanded.

“I’m not doing anything. You are,” Casano said. Using his foot, he shoved the rifle across the floor, keeping the revolver trained on Hawkin’s head.

“You’re gonna pick up that rifle very slowly. No funny business, ya hear? There’s a guy in a window of the building across the street with you in his gunsights. You make a wrong move, and your head’s gonna explode like a watermelon,” Casano said.

On the street below, the band began playing “Hail to the Chief,” and Hawkins estimated the motorcade was about a block away. “I still don’t understand what you want me to do.”

A sick grin spread across Casano’s jowls. “Why, Danny Boy, you’re gonna make Santos Trafficante very happy. You’re gonna kill his biggest enemy. You’re gonna make a name for yourself today. You’re gonna kill Kennedy.”

“Like hell I am! Are you crazy? I knew you were dirty. I didn’t know you were stupid too!” Hawkins hissed.

“Stupid? That would be you, Danny Boy. You think you can waltz into my department and snitch on me? It don’t matter none if you’re my brother-in-law. You’re gonna do this for Mr. Santos. Then, I’m gonna take care of you. Also for Mr. Santos.”