Trapped (24 page)

of cunning, soulless attorneys who will represent me, that you

and the council and every member of the tribe have a shared

responsibility to oversee the actions of one of their own. Call

him dead, if you like. Kick him out of the tribe, fine, that’s

your prerogative. But you will not be able to hide behind any

legal, ethical or tribal fictions that the actions he has taken

against me personally are not a direct and deadly conse-

quence of the actions you took against him. You hurt him,

therefore he hurt me because he knew I’d come to you on

bended knee, which I have. I have asked for your help and

you spurn me.”

Edwin pauses, his heart slamming like a tag-team wrestler

pounding the canvas, begging for mercy. Outwardly the man

in the snakeskin vest has not reacted beyond a slight thinning

of the lips.

“If my son dies because you refused to help me, refused

to help a man who helped you and your people, then I

promise you this. On the graves of my wife and son, I swear

I will spend every penny of all my wealth to wreck havoc

upon your people. I will hire lobbyists. I will bribe politi-

cians. I’ll buy judges. Whatever it takes, on all levels—

county, state and federal—from now until the last day of

forever. You will have to spend every dollar of casino income

defending yourselves. You think you have trouble with Ricky

Lang? Imagine what will happen when those young men

down there find that you’ve squandered their future income

on lawyer fees. If my son dies because of an argument you

and your cronies had with your crazy nephew, so help me

God I’ll seek to prove that the Nakosha are not a distinct tribe,

and therefore do not deserve tribal status. And after I’m dead

it won’t end, because I’ll have endowed a foundation whose

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sole purpose will be proving that you’re not Indian at all, but

a band of escaped Cuban sugarcane slaves who hid in the

swamp and played Indian when it suited your purpose.”

“That’s a white man’s lie,” says the man in the vest, softly,

his jaw muscles clenching.

“It’s a white man’s world, Joe,” Edwin reminds him. “But

look, I didn’t come here to make threats or throw my weight

around. I came here asking for help. Help me, please.”

The man in the vest takes off his pricey sunglasses. His

eyes give nothing away. “The council will meet,” he says.

“There will be a discussion.”

On the long and bumpy ride out, Edwin Manning orders

Sally Pop to stop at the sign warning visitors that firearms

are prohibited in the sovereign territory of the Nakosha

Nation. The Hummer idles, engine growling.

“What do you see?” Edwin asked.

Sally peers helplessly out the window, eyes popping more

than usual. “What am I looking for?” he asks plaintively.

“You tell me,” Edwin suggests. “You’re the security guy.

Maybe, I dunno, the surveillance camera on top of the sign?

The camera that lets the really smart Indians watch the really

stupid cowboys try to hide their guns?”

“Shit,” says Sally, clocking the small but rather obvious

CCTV camera mounted on the pole holding up the sign.

Stink Breath rolls down his window and leans out, giving

the camera a pudgy middle finger. “Remember the fuggin’

Alamo!” he shouts.

“That was Mexicans,” Edwin points out, “not Indians.”

“Same thing,” Stink Breath insists.

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185

9. Rockin At The Europa

Million-dollar penthouse condos don’t look like all that

much these days, at least from the outside. Just another row

of windows in another silver tower scratching at the city’s

jagged skyline. In downtown Miami the old tropical pastels

having given way to a more businesslike brushed chrome and

raw concrete. One of many such recent structures in what

used to be the Brickell Avenue financial district, which has

been transformed, according to Shane, into a financial/resi-

dential/retail area with thousands of new units under con-

struction, presold or occupied.

The elevated cranes are everywhere, crawling like thin steel

spiders, weaving a brand-new city in the sky. Progress measured

by the cubic yard, total square feet and creative financing.

“Boom doesn’t describe what’s happened to Miami,” he

explains, surveying the glittering new tower with a pair of

small Nikon binoculars. “More like one of those crazy reality

movies,
Real Estate Gone Wild.
A lot of it fueled by Latin

American money. Makes a lot of sense if you look at an aviation

map—Miami is right in the center of air-travel routes from all

of South and Central America. Wealthy family from, say,

Caracas, they keep a nice place in Miami, come here to shop

every couple of months, check on the investments. And if the

crap ever hits the fan back home, they’ve already got a stake in

the good old U.S.A., and a ready-made roof over their heads.”

“So it’s all about money?”

“Sure. Money and security.”

“Speaking of money, I gotta ask,” I say, a little nervous.

“What do you charge? I mean, this is going to be expensive,

right? Helping me find Kelly?”

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Chris Jordan

He lowers the binoculars. “Please don’t concern yourself.

When the job is done, when your daughter is safe home, we’ll

sit down and determine a reasonable fee. Some of the people

I’ve helped are wealthy and some are not. People pay what

they can afford. It all evens out.”

“I was just, you know, concerned.”

“Don’t be. Not about my fee, in any case.” He returns to

the binoculars, subject closed. “I see somebody. One of

Manning’s underlings, I assume. Looks like he’s pouring

himself a drink at the stand-up bar.”

Shane hands me the binoculars, lets me look for myself.

We’re on a balcony facing the condo tower. In a manic burst

of energy I’d checked us into Europa, an elegant new hotel in

an exclusive little enclave on Biscayne Bay. The place is

absurdly, almost offensively pricey, which is what got me

nervous about money, but it has a direct view of Manning’s

condo from the balcony, and so on impulse I had handed over

my American Express card and tried not to look at the per-night

total for adjoining rooms. A big ouch. The careful, business-

person part of me still counting dimes while the desperate

mom throws caution—and credit—to the soft tropical winds.

To be more specific, the breeze from the bay is sultry,

moisture laden, smelling faintly of salt and a fecund odor that

Shane says comes from the mangroves miles away. Whatever,

I’m adjusting to the heat, buying into my new sense of mission.

If Edwin Manning and his minions are here, there must be

hope.

“That’s him!” I exclaim. “The bald jerk with the pop-out

eyes.”

“The guy from the airport?”

“Yes! He’s got his arm in a sling.”

“Got his ass in a sling, more like.”

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187

“He’s pointing his finger at the guy with the drink, telling

him something. Doesn’t look like a happy conversation.”

“Lemme see.”

I hand over the binoculars.

Shane studies, nods. “This is good. We’ve got the right

address.”

“You already got that from the Internet,” I point out.

“Yeah, but it never hurts to confirm. Back in the day, I was

on a stakeout once for a whole week? Two teams, twelve-

hour shifts, waiting for the suspect to show his face. Turns

out we had the wrong side of the building, the suspect was

coming and going the whole time. We were staking out the

wrong apartment. My mistake.”

“I prefer to think you never make mistakes.”

He places the binoculars in my hands. “Me? To err is

human.”

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Back to my computer. Just thought of something.”

“What should I do?”

“Keep watching.”

“What am I watching for?”

Shane looks at me. “You’ll know it when you see it. Some-

thing out of the ordinary.”

“But everything is out of the ordinary,” I protest. “I’m

supposed to be adjusting hemlines, not spying on billionaires.”

“Keep watching,” he insists, heading for his laptop.

I keep watching. He keeps clacking on the keys.

Eyeballing the interior of Manning’s condo gives me a

new appreciation for bird-watchers. I had no idea it was so

much work, keeping focus. Plus the lens distorts things and

it takes concentration to figure out what, exactly, you’re

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Chris Jordan

looking at. For instance I keep seeing this flash of white,

and assume that someone is darting across the big room, but

that doesn’t really make sense—why run?—so I keep

looking and eventually figure out it’s a reflection from a TV

screen that must be wall mounted, facing the interior of the

room, or maybe coming from a corner. Which also explains

the dull looks from the heavy guy with his arm in a sling.

He and two other burly types just sitting there staring like

a row of hypnotized apes. Monkey see, monkey sit. And

yes, I do know that apes aren’t monkeys. Having been cor-

rected by Kelly, who as usual was rolling her eyes at my ig-

norance.

Part of me can’t wait for her to grow up and have kids of

her own, so we can commiserate, talk about the bad old days

when she was a teenage drama queen. Another part of me

wants her to be ten years old again, the year of no hospitals

when she was rediscovering the world, seeking approval and

encouragement from me. Like I was a person who had

valuable insights to share. Like I really and truly mattered.

Whereas now I’m this fatally uncool, totally hopeless re-

pository of embarrassment who has nothing to offer, whose

role has been reduced to that of a housemaid—except no self-

respecting housemaid would tolerate that level of scorn. A

scorn that made my precious daughter think it was okay to

keep so much of her life from me. Her thrill-seeking, death-

defying life. Her own personal flyboy kind of life.

Talk about exciting—fast cars, motorcycles, airplanes,

parachutes. An entire life kept secret from the tedious bore

who does her laundry.

How could she? How could my little girl do this to me?

It’s like all her life I’ve been saying the equivalent of
be

careful crossing the street
and she decides to run out in traffic

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189

just to spite me. Sticking out her adolescent, know-it-all

tongue as the bus runs her down.

Okay, I’m a thousand miles from home, sick with worry,

but I’m also really and truly pissed at my own daughter. This

is where I’m at, mentally and emotionally: I want to rescue

the little bitch so I can kill her myself.

Which is, of course, insane.

“Anything new?” Shane asks, making me jump.

“I don’t get how a guy your size can sneak up on people,”

I say.

“Squeakless sneakers,” he says.

“Squeakless sneakers?”

“Hard to find but worth their weight in gold.”

“I’m really really mad at her,” I confess.

His big hand brushes his bearded chin. “Of course you

are. You’ve a right to be. We get her back, you can ground

her for a year.”

“Fern says I should chain her to a radiator.”

Shane gives me an odd look, and then it hits me.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I said that! That’s what kid-

nappers do, isn’t it? Chain the victims to radiators.”

“We’ll find her,” he assures me. “You have my pledge.”

I believe him. But he doesn’t say whether she’ll be dead

or alive. My first impulse is to burst into tears for the twenty-

third time, but my tear ducts are empty, and wanting to cry

just makes my eyes itch.

“You have your cell phone?” he asks.

I nod.

“I want you to put me on speed dial,” he says. “I’ll set mine

to vibrate and if you see any cops or security guards heading

my way, you hit the dial.”

“What are you talking about?”

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Chris Jordan

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry. Forgot you can’t read my mind.

Manning has a local motor vehicle registered in his name. A

big orange Hummer, which ought to be easy to find. I’ll enter

the garage beneath his building, locate his vehicle, and leave

him a little surprise.”

“Oh. What kind of surprise?”

He holds up a Baggie with something small and rectan-

gular inside, looks like a black electrical switch.

“Am I supposed to guess?” I ask.

“Sorry. It’s a handy-dandy GPS tracking device.”

“Something you got from the FBI?”

“No, ma’am. This particular model is readily available

online. Magnetic mounted, motion activated. So where Man-

ning goes, we can follow.”

“Is that legal?”

“Absolutely not,” Shane says. “That’s why you’re keeping

an eye out for the cops.”

10. What Needs To Be Done

Far below, the wet street glistens like black glass. Traffic