Tampa Star (Blackfox Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

“So, if you have one million in gold,” said Char, “what the hell do you need other investments for?”

Block looked at the quizzical expression on Char’s face and answered. “Because yank, it’s just on loan, I can’t be giving that away.” 

Block left a short time later, but not before giving a business card to all three of them—Char figured that provided the cover Block needed to better insure that he might see Carla again.  

“The Commodore told me to take the banker’s boat out for a run this Saturday.”  It was Friday—Char sat at the picnic table in back of the showroom that served as the official outdoor lunch and after work beer drinking area.  He had just finished his lunch and was fishing out a smoke when Tommy appeared.

The banker was a New Yorker who spent winters in St. Pete living on his sixty foot ‘71 Hatteras. He wanted the boat ready to go at all times, so Tommy regularly took it out and invited friends, sometimes strippers from joints off Route 19 if he had extra coin, as they never offered their company for free, regardless of the surroundings. 

“Aye, tis a beautiful boat the Hatteras is!” Opined Char in a mock Irish accent.

“Aye ‘tis, indeed” agreed Tommy. The two had taken the boat out several times before and always had good time fishing, cooking out, and drinking beer until close to sundown. Then they would rev those twin diesels and power up as soon as they cleared John’s Pass.

The Hatteras was built for sport fishing, but it was a plush boat nonetheless; she had a teak paneled salon, a dinette area that could accommodate six directly across from the galley, an under counter refrigerator , a four-burner cooktop, convection oven, and even a garbage disposal.  She also sported three staterooms—each with their own head and shower.  The boat could sleep 6 comfortably and Char figured that they could stay out overnight given a good enough reason. It presented an opportunity for Char to get a little closer to Carla.  Tommy said he would clear it with the Commodore by claiming he needed to check out the running lights and navigation system or some such bullshit—rumor had it the Commodore used to get around.

Tommy had been seeing a stripper with the stage name of Aquarius, from a club in Clearwater. Her real name was Gladys, so he was comfortable calling her Aquarius. They hoped that Carla would be comfortable rubbing shoulders with her, but figured as long as they were fed plenty of food and drink, the situation would figure itself out.

That afternoon they stopped by the La Petite Grocery, the Quebecer’s market in the corner of one of the ou
t building in the yacht brokerage and loaded up on groceries, several bottles of good French wine, a bottle of Jack Daniels, cheese, bread, sausages, eggs, and four frozen beef filets that were flown in from Montana.  Char added some potatoes to that and a few ears of corn that Filipe had gotten that morning at the Farmer’s Market in Dunedin. If they had any luck, they would be able to add some lobster tails to the feast, as Char was bringing his scuba equipment along. 

Later, they topped off the tanks, climbed aboard and drank beer in the main salon.  Aquarius was working until
eleven p.m. and Carla would not be free until the morning.  This provided Tommy the time he needed to discuss his proposal with Char in private. Char sat down in the rich leather club chairs in the main saloon.  Tommy handed him another cold can of Bud and remained standing.

“Ok
ay, Tommy, what’s on your mind?” 

“Come on, man, you know what’s on my mind, and it’s on your mind too.  That ship will have a million dollars in gold on it and we can take it,” said Tommy.

“Many a slip between the cup and the lip, “said Char.

“Huh?”

“Easier said than done,” he replied.

Well, at least he didn’t say he wasn’t interested
.  In the end though, he wasn’t.

“Look Tommy, right now, I am a relatively happy man—got a job, a house, a girl and last but not least, a pick-up truck.  That’s all I need for the time being, then as an afterthought, he added.  If any of that changes, I’ll consider it.”

In frustration, Tommy opened the Jack Daniels and poured them both a strong one.

“Man, with a million bucks to split we could live the rest of o
ur lives on a boat like this.”

“We would have to, replied Char.
Do you think that there would be anyplace else we could hide after stealing gold from a guy like Simon Block?”

They went on drinking but Char would not be moved. 
He was happy earning two bucks an hour working as a gofer
, thought Tommy. 

The following morning the girls arrived and they took the boat out to Egmont Key, one of the locations of old coastal artillery batteries that once guarded the entrance to Tampa Bay.

They dropped anchor in fifty feet of water off the leeward side of the key and Char jumped in with his Scuba gear in search of crustaceans.  He was lucky—he returned in forty minutes with half a dozen lobsters for an evening feast.  Tommy fished off the back of the boat and caught two sea bass that Carla fried up for lunch.

In the afternoon, Carla and Char took the dingy over to the beach on Egmont and walked along the shore.  It was idyllic in the late afternoon sun, the tide was starting to come in and the air was filled with sea birds flying back and forth along the shoreline, searching for food. They embraced and Char kissed her deeply.  He felt that he loved her and that she could make him complete.

Other than their presence, the island was otherwise deserted. He led her behind a dune, spread out a blanket, and began to undress her. Carla feigned surprise and vainly tried to dissuade him, but soon surrendered to her passion and joined him in hurried and powerful sexual congress.

Afterward, they reclined on the sand exhausted. Char pulled out a couple of cigarettes and lit them, handing one to Carla.  He was relaxed, happy, and tired. He stared dreamily up at the sky and sighed.

“Ever think about us, Carla?” 

“About us, Char?  What about us?” 

“You know, the future, getting serious, maybe?”

“Listen sweetheart,” she replied.  “I like you and we have a good time together, but I’m not looking to get serious with someone anytime soon.” What she left unsaid was that she had no intention of ever getting serious with someone she would have to build from scratch again.  Her last husband was a nobody when they met; a junior counsel in a large family run firm. 

She molded him into a new man and that allowed him to succeed.  She got him to lose weight and get his hair cut by a stylist, rather than a buck fifty barber.  She picked out his suits and even helped him pick out a car that reflected the persona he wanted to project—a Triumph TR2, the first sports car ever produced.  The car was all power and sleekness.  

He became general counsel for the Myers Corporation and started nailing his secretary. It was a cold betrayal and it signaled to Carla that it was time to cash out.  She got the mobile home park and a car, not exactly the plums she was looking for, but alimony because of his infidelity amounted to a few dollars more.

She would not make the same mistake a second time.  This time she intended to marry someone who was already there—and if and when it came time to cash out, she would have all her ducks in order. 

She smiled and Char looked at her.

What are you thinking about baby?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing dear, don’t you think we should be getting back? I don’t want Tommy and his stripper to take off on us.”       

Tommy had chosen a nondescript dive bar he knew of on Central Avenue near downtown St. Pete. It was a dusty, poorly lite place full of cracked linoleum tables and faux leather booths, half filled with daytime drinkers—it was the perfect place for an ex-con to meet a felon on the run.

Tommy took a seat facing the entrance in one of the old wooden booths that lined the wall and waited. Jimmy had been standing at the bar, long hair and a beard making him unrecognizable from afar. He approached Tommy, who sat transfixed on the entranceway.

“Hello, little brother” said Jimmy, causing Tommy to jump—technically, they were cousins, but Tommy Finnegan and Jimmy O’Brien were closer than most brothers. 

He knew the unmistakable raspy voice, the result of smoking non-filtered cigarettes since the age of
twelve, and he had still been startled.

“I’ve been waiting to see if you were followed. Can never be too careful,” said Jimmy with a tight smile. 

“Yeah, you almost made me piss myself,” said Tommy.  Jimmy laughed and slid into the booth across from him.  Aside from the long hair and beard, Jimmy looked good—he was dressed in a dark blue Guayabera, white cotton trousers and leather sandal. He even had the residue of a late summer tan.

“Just another tourist on vacation,” quipped Jimmy.

The bartender approached and Jimmy ordered whiskey.

“Johnnie Walker Black and leave the bottle,” he ordered.

“Sorry, sir, we don’t do that here,” he replied.  Jimmy looked up at the bartender, with a slight grin on his lips and a quizzical look on his face.  The bartender was a burly man with Popeye like forearms who looked like he had a limited supply of patience that Jimmy was already trying.

“O
kay, how about this,” Jimmy offered, what’s a shot cost here?”

A dollar,” he replied curtly.

Jimmy reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a wad of bills held together with a silver money clip and deftly peeled off a crisp hundred dollar bill for the man to see.

“Let’s call it two dollars a shot, just leave the bottle so we can serve ourselves and give us a couple of chasers.”

“Sure, sir, that would be fine,” he replied as he snatched the bill and abruptly walked away—perhaps worried that Jimmy would come to his senses before he could grab the hundred.

Jimmy smiled. “See, bro, that’s called a win-win situation—everybody ends up happy.”    

They drank and talked, each detailing what had happened since the ill-fated robbery that got their brother killed, Jimmy shot, and Tommy convicted and sent to Angola Prison.

“Funny that we both ended up here in Florida,” said Tommy.

“Hell, kid,
that was always the plan, you just took a detour along the way.”

“Yeah, a detour is a funny thing to call a prison sentence, said Tommy.

“Well, whatever you call it, this is paradise as far as I’m concerned,” replied Jimmy as he downed his shot and followed with a swig of beer.  

They poured another drink and Jimmy
detailed his escape—the theft of the pills that got him dealing, the fact that his girl was raking at least five hundred a week as a stripper.

“There are a lot of
opportunities to make more money working for my boss, Sally Boots,” said Jimmy.

“Doing what, exactly?” asked Tommy. 

“Anything and everything, if it involves making money the illegal way, I’m all in.”

Jimmy smiled and fished out a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit the end with a matchbook, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke over Tommy’s head.

“We just did a bit of business last week. I jacked a truck of cigars that had just been loaded up at a factory in Ybor City and drove it to a warehouse where me and a mook named Ligio loaded the Puros onto another truck. I drove it to a diner on the Jersey pike just north of the turn off for Atlantic City where we met a couple of no-necks who took the truck and paid us in bundles of cash. My end amounted to two grand for a couple of days’ worth of work—not bad at all,” said Jimmy.

Jimmy thought he could work Tommy into some similar jobs—if Sally liked him. Tommy could barely contain himself listening to the details of what he considered to be small time hood-ism.

“That’s peanuts, bro,” said Tommy. “How would you like to do one robbery for a cool million, plus change?”

Jimmy poured himself another whiskey, adopted a cockeyed squint, an expression that Tommy remembered from their youth that meant Jimmy was seriously considering something. This could either be bad or good as Jimmy was relatively intelligent, but also had a mercurial temper—so a punch upside the head could be the item under consideration. You just never knew with Jimmy. 

“It’s your dime, bro,” said Jimmy finally. “Why not tell me what you’ve been up to?”

Tommy ran it all down for him; the casino ship, Char, the gold, and the crazy Aussie behind it all. He went on to lay out the scenario, how he felt it could play out and how they intended to settle up and get out of town before the long arm of the law encircled them.

“Nice plan, but you’re going to need some more muscle to handle a hundred people,” Jimmy said finally.

“Yeah, Bro, that’s where you and your associates come in,” responded Tommy.  

An hour later, after they had thoroughly discussed all the particulars, they finished the bottle and walked out together.

On entering, Tommy had admired a powder blue ‘60 Stingray parked at the corner and was surprised when his brother walked over to it as he fished the keys out of his pocket.

“That’s yours!” he exclaimed. 

“Hell yeah, little brother!
You didn’t think I was sitting on my hands while they had you locked up?”

They shared a fleeting masculine embrace that was more appropriate between teammates on a gridiron than long lost brothers. Jimmy climbed behind the wheel, fired up the big V-eight and peeled off from the curb.
Tommy just smiled and waved goodbye. They had made plans to meet when Jimmy had everything lined up on his end.