Tampa Burn (22 page)

But nope. No knife. He'd lost it when I popped his wrist askew.

Even so, I still had their general . . .

As the two guards moved cautiously toward me, their weapons raised, I shifted my grip from the man's hair and arm to a modified choke hold, so that my forearms cradled Balserio's head.

As the General wrestled with me, again commanding, “Shoot him! You idiots, kill him!” I said to the guards in a much calmer voice to make certain they listened: “Come one step closer, I'll break his neck. I know
how
to do it, believe me.”

I could have done it, too. But for what?

It was a bluff, and it didn't work.

The bodyguards had finally maneuvered themselves so that there was one on each side of me. Now Panama Hat touched the barrel of his Uzi submachine gun near my temple, and said in Spanish, “Yeah, dude, that's cool, go right ahead. You break his neck, I shoot your head off. Then you and the General can go to hell together and finish your fight. People down in that place are probably already selling tickets, man, making bets.”

Panama Hat was far more subtle and articulate in Spanish.

I had no choice. I released Balserio, pushing him roughly away. He turned immediately and charged. He kicked at me once, hard—I blocked it with my hands and hip—and then he began to slap wildly at my face with his open hands.

“You think I'm done with you? I'm
not
done with you.”

As he slapped at me and kicked, I covered my head with my arms, ducking and weaving until his men pulled him away.

But when Balserio then dropped to his hands and knees, searching furiously to recover his knife, it occurred to me:
Maybe I shouldn't have bluffed.

He seemed determined to use the damn thing.

PANAMA
Hat was Elmase. White Shoes was Hugo. The men could communicate without speaking. Eye movement, a shift of the shoulders, a re-angling of the jaw. That's all it took.

They had some history, judging from their easy familiarity. Way more going between each other than with the General. Were probably partners in some intricate way. Maybe family.

Balserio was a mental case, and they seemed to recognize it. Or maybe he was just acting crazy, playing out years of despising me, but taking it beyond the edge.

This was the General who'd imported a sociopath into his own country for political gain. A serial killer who set people on
fire.
Did they know?

Maybe. I noticed that they distanced themselves from Balserio in subtle ways. One was by demonstrating exaggerated patience.

The General was still on his knees, crawling in the tall scrub where the knife had vanished. There were plant colonies I recognized as giant leather ferns—ancient sporangia coated—and alligator lilies with stalks toothed sharp enough to cut skin.

Balserio had cut himself a couple of times, cursing, then sucking blood off his fingers.

“You don't have knives? One of you has to have a knife!”

“No, General. We have guns. Why would we need anything else when we have good guns? We can shoot off his
cojones,
if you wish.”

From the tone, the flat subservience mixed with sarcasm, I got the impression they wouldn't have admitted carrying knives if they had them.

Balserio was practically frothing. “I'm paying fools like you? Then grab that pig's arms while I find
my
knife. Tie him to a tree and strip his pants. I'm going to cut his balls off. I swore I'd make him a sow if I ever got the chance. I'll do it now.
Then
we'll find Pilar.”

Elmase and Hugo looked at me, expressions mild but now interested, a bedrock contempt held in ready. To be terrified was to be debased. Maybe contempt shielded them from the humiliation of other men they'd seen begging. How would I react?

Hugo said, “Then I guess we'll need some rope. Do we have rope in the car?”

Elmase said slowly, “No, but there's tape. We could tape his arms and legs to a tree. Tape could work . . . if you're sure you want to do this thing.”

Neither sounded enthusiastic. More silent communication was taking place. Their focus on me, though, remained intense. How would this man react when threatened with the ultimate male humiliation?

I was furious. Too enraged to be frightened. Furious that Balserio would not only threaten me, but also threaten to maim my son. He intended to
do
it. Really wanted to cut me. Tomlinson has written a few things that've stuck with me. One is,
To make a fool of a tyrant, refuse to submit.

It had a brand of kiss-my-ass wisdom that now flooded through me.

So my reaction was aggressive, and it wasn't an act.

The bodyguards had put some space between us. White Shoes—Hugo—had slipped the pistol back into his pocket and was relying on the shotgun again.

When he said, “Yes, then I guess you should get the tape. I'll hold the big man while you do his hands first, then his—” I silenced him, snapping, “
Enough.
Stop right there. Not another word.”

Both paused, looking at me, expectant.

I pointed my index finger first at Hugo, then Elmase, before I continued, “Don't waste your time with the tape. What you need to do is, go ahead and shoot me. I mean it. Do it
right now.
Because I'm not going to let you lay a finger on me. No one's tying me to a tree. And that lunatic's sure as hell not getting near me again with a knife. So go ahead and shoot.”

I jabbed my finger at Hugo for emphasis. “I'll tell you one thing, though. You'd better aim high and shoot straight. And you'd better hope my hands don't live any longer than my brain. If they do,
you're
gonna die with me.”

Hugo sobered for a moment, his contempt fading as he translated the meaning of that. He and Elmase exchanged facial expressions, then a shrug.

The exchange seemed to go:
Is he acting?

Then:
Yeah, man. I'd die before letting any man take a knife to my private parts, too.

Hugo looked at me with his wide face and began to chuckle. Then Elmase began to laugh, too.

“If your hands don't die before your brain,” Hugo said. “Man, that's a good one. Like in this old movie I saw. This hand go running around on its fingers, choking dudes. Scary. And the way you said it. That was kinda scary, too. Like you could make it
happen.
”

We'd locked eyes, my eyes telling his:
Yeah, I
can
make it happen.
Still furious, I believed it.

I didn't look away until Hugo had turned to Elmase, who was saying, “Yeah, but the Yankee is so
right.
Take the bullet, man. Before I even let some dude put his hands on my balls, I'd take the bullet. Shit, I'd grab the gun and do it
myself.
”

Behind us, Balserio was on his knees still searching for the knife, frustrated now, and yelling, “Didn't you hear me? I told you to take him and tie him to a tree. That's an
order.
”

Hugo made a waving motion with his hand, not dismissing the man but evading. “That's what we're
doing,
General. But first . . . I think, we need to check out this dude's car. Who knows? Maybe your wife's hiding in there. Or that giant dude with the tattoos—if he's around, he's so big, we'd have to shoot him ten, twelve times to bring him down. Like those rhinos you see on TV. Be cool, General. Be cool. We know our jobs.”

Spanish profanity can only seldom be translated literally into English. Try, and it sounds silly. That's because it relies on so many simple, inoffensive words that, when used with subtle or sinister emphasis, become offensive. The words
cork, rope, papaya,
and
bug,
for example, can also be graphically profane.

Balserio knew all the words and subtleties, and he pelted me with them as Hugo and Elmase steered me at gunpoint toward the rental Ford. He used the foulest, sickest phrases. Translated, though, he was telling me that I was a billy goat who slept with young billy goats on rusty mattress springs in my mother's house.

Something perverse in me found that funny—or maybe I was just crashing emotionally after being threatened and assaulted—and as my anger dissipated, I began to laugh. Really laugh.

I was a
cabrón
? A billy goat? The man who might soon be president of Masagua was calling me animal names.

Hilarious.

Hugo and Elmase seemed surprised, then puzzled. I might not be tied to a tree, awaiting the Crazy Machete, but they still had me captive at gunpoint.

But then Elmase stopped walking, head tilted because he heard what I'd already heard: the raceway sound of cars revving too fast around a curve.

“What's that noise, man?”

“Shit! Cars coming, hide your gun!”

Then we could see them, white cars heading our way, seeming to flatten themselves at speed over the gravel road: county sheriff 's vehicles, green on white, no sirens or lights, which is procedure when a person calling 911 says he thinks he'll be killed if the bad guys hear help coming.

To Hugo and Elmase, I now said, “You'd better throw your weapons down. Quick.”

When they didn't react immediately, I added, “When the police jump out, see you two guys dressed like pimps, holding automatic weapons—down here in the Everglades? They
might
think you're dangerous.”

Convinced, they swung their guns into the bushes as I added, “But you're going to jail anyway. I know you helped me out with that crazy asshole, but it's still gotta be jail.”

Elmase seemed not to hear that, replying, “Pimps? Dressed like
pimps
? That's not a very nice thing to say. These clothes got style, man.”

Standing there in his white Panama hat and metallic shirt, neon pink and blue, offended. About to be arrested, but his expression still telling me:
You hurt my feelings, man.

 

DIAL 911 and tell them you're a respectable Sanibel Island resident crossing the Everglades in a car being pursued at high speed by strangers who are shooting guns, and the dispatcher will send out the cavalry.

The cavalry had assembled: sheriff's deputies, state troopers, and plainclothes detectives in unmarked cars, all vehicles jumbled in a line, the Loop Road blocked shut, emergency lights strobing high in the shadowed domes of cypress trees on this late South Florida afternoon.

Sunset was at a little after eight P.M. Probably less than an hour away. No way for me to know for certain, because I was handcuffed. Couldn't see my watch.

Back on Sanibel and Captiva, the ceremonial cocktail crowds would already be gathering at South Seas Plantation, the Mucky Duck, Casa Ybel, among others, and at our little Dinkin's Bay Marina. Same would be true up and down the Gulf Coast of Florida, Key West to Pensacola Bay.

It would soon be social hour in the dawdling May heat. The pearly time when friends meet with cold drinks in small, local places to watch the sun orbit into the Gulf and spark its universal blaze.

I wanted to get back to Dinkin's Bay for sunset. Wanted to share some stories and laughs with Mack, Jeth, JoAnn, Rhonda, all the fishing guides, the live-aboards, and the rest of the marina community. That's exactly what I needed to neutralize the image of Balserio coming at me, knife in hand, with that leering grin on his face.

It had been too close. Too ugly.

I wanted faces of friends to replace his in my memory, before the image seared itself.

But there wasn't much chance I'd make it back in time.

Despite the handcuffs, and out of habit, I tried to check my watch anyway. I flinched to move my arms from behind me and sneak a glance. Impossible. Not sitting alone in the back seat of a Collier County Sheriff's deputy's vehicle.

I'd been placed there by a uniformed deputy with the briefest of explanations—“Relax. We'll get back to you.”—and so had been waiting and watching a small army of law enforcement people move in busy silence outside my air-conditioned space.

I was thirsty. I also had to pee.

They'd treated Hugo, Elmase, Balserio, and me all the same.

When the first three squad cars came skidding toward us, the officers bailed with weapons drawn and pointed, screaming,
“Get down! Show us your hands ! Get down! Get down!”

So much for my theory that I'd be singled out as an innocent local and given special treatment.

We were approached cautiously, asked the whereabouts of weaponry, then handcuffed, frisked, I.D.s taken, then separated.

Because firearms were involved, they explained, and because there was a report of shots fired, everyone had to be constrained until officers figured out who was who and what had happened.

It took a while.

Finally, a woman in a starched deputy's uniform opened the door and asked, “You're the gentleman who called nine-one-one?”

Then she asked, “Do you mind answering a few questions?”

Sitting in the back of the squad car, I repeated my story separately to two different uniformed deputies. They were both articulate, professional.

After the first interview, I was told I had to remain in the back seat, but the handcuffs were removed, my driver's license was returned, and I was allowed to take a whiz.

As I returned to the car, I noted that Elmase, Hugo, and the sadistic General were in separate vehicles, all getting lots of close attention from people both in uniform and out. They were still handcuffed, too, judging from their posture.

I was pleased.

After telling my story a second time, I was asked politely if I wouldn't mind sticking around long enough to tell it again to a couple of officers from the Major Crimes Division who'd soon arrive.