Filed to story: Return of the Reaper Story
“If you like the shit we can do that.”
“When?”
“You keep the phone Dougie gave you. I’ll call you tomorrow late. Give you time to confirm how outrageous my shit is.”
“Then we do a serious deal.”
“We’ll talk then.”
The phone went dead.
Isaac drove north for Tampa. He pulled off at the exit for Seffner and went into the rest room at a Wawa carrying the Target bag he’d found under the front seat of the Avalanche. In the stall he opened the bag to find a paper envelope containing a sandwich baggie loaded with tiny rocks. They looked like dusty diamonds. He unzipped the bag and dumped the contents in the toilet and flushed.
The doublewide sat at the end of Lockhaven Road. A standalone steel garage building with six bays. A primer-shot Dodge Charger sat on the concrete pad by a pair of Harleys. The place had a view of Cotton Lake off the back deck where Dutch Manklin sat counting out the last of the fifty dollar bills on a granite topped table. Dougie sat with him. They were having coffees brought to them by Rachel, Dutch’s latest old lady. Dutch poured some flavored creamer into his mug and stirred.
“How can you drink that shit?” Dougie’s nose wrinkled at the smell of faux hazelnuts wafting off the other biker’s mug.
“You keep up drinking your shit black you wind up with the reflux, brother,” Dutch said while wrapping the stack of Grants with a double strap of rubber band.
“Think this guy’s for real?” Dougie said.
“His money is. You told me he went into the Red Roof alone, no reservation. No phone calls. Never talked to anyone.”
“We don’t know him. This deal could be the set-up. Next time it’s him and an army of staties.”
“Doesn’t matter. We can’t handle the weight he’s talking about anyway,” Dutch said taking a sip of the milky mess in his mug. It left a frosting on his mustache that he licked away.
“It’s a lot of money, Dutchie.”
“It’s a lot of hassle and a lot of heat. Let him deal direct with the Russian. We pick up points off the deal. Ten percent maybe. That’s eleven kay we didn’t have last night without any real exposure.”
Dutch picked up one of three cell phones he had on the table and punched send then send again. A female voice answered on the other end.
“Tell Dimi to pick up, bitch.”
The cellphone buzzed and shimmied on the table by the bed waking Isaac.
It was Dutch.
“You got a meet two days from now. You know Channelside?”
“Tampa. Where the cruise ships come in.”
“That’s right, brother. There’s a bar. Upper level. The River Rock. Four o’clock.”
“I hear you.”
“But first you have to prove you’re up for the deal. We need to know you’re for real.”
“How do I do that?”
“Use the cell I gave you. Take a picture of your cash and send it to me. Five minutes.”
The line went dead.
Isaac got out of bed. Just after midnight. He got the satchel of cash out of the closet of the hotel room. He stripped off the bank bands and dumped it on the bed. He picked up the USA Today still lying where it had been slid under the door that morning. It went on the bed by the cash. He snapped a picture after figuring out the photo function on the phone. Took another for safety then forwarded it to the only number in his send file.
The cell buzzed seconds later.
“The newspaper was a nice touch. You like the James Bond shit after all.”
“I have the cash. Do you have my product?”
“We’ll talk at Channelside. Bring the cash.”
“I’m that stupid,” Isaac said.
“It’s a public place. A cruise ship will be loading and off-loading. There’s gonna be assholes off the Carnival Princess everywhere.”
“Sunday. Channelside. River Rock. At four.”
The line went dead again.
The moored cruise ship towered over the open-air mall at Channelside. The top decks of it were level with condos on the eighth floor of the buildings facing the deep waters of the turning basin.
People in cruise-wear were exiting the ship and complaining that Tampa was colder than they anticipated. Channelside Drive was packed with cars heading for the long term parking garages. The cruisebound tourists climbing out of buses and taxis were dressed for Florida winter in layers of sweats. The two crowds, a human estuary of the boarding and debarking, mixed in the mall with idle hours to fill before departure.
The mall was shuttered, a victim of economic downturn and the collapse of Florida tourism. The landed passengers were left wandering empty halls lined with white-washed storefronts. The food court was on the second level surrounded by shuttered theme bars, a locked up bowling alley and closed multiplex theater. There were tables and chairs under tattered awnings and tiki-style gazebos. The only food and drink available came from cart services that the city allowed to set up in the empty space.
A stiff wind off the channel sent most of the time-killing tourists off to restaurants within walking distance. Or to the trolley to take them to warm bars and shops in Ybor City ten minutes away. That left most of the tables on the upper level of Channelside empty.
Isaac arrived early. He parked the Avalanche on the first level of the parking tower across the street. He joined the growing crowd of new arrivals and drifted up to the food court and took up a vantage point in the shade of an awning. From there he could watch as two men in leather coats took seats in front of the plywood-covered front of River Rock. The rest of the seats and tables bolted down to the deck were empty. They were both young guys with dark hair and carefully trimmed goatees. Both the kind of guys who spend a lot of time on their appearance. Their wrists flashed with jewelry.
At the same time they arrived, three other men took up positions around the food court, doing a poor job of appearing to be casual lookie-loos. They got their coats off the same rack as the seated men.
Each man at the table either spoke on or played with smart phones as they waited. They might have been strangers except that they were dressed like actors auditioning for the same part.
Isaac approached using the milling crowd around the hot dog and pretzel wagons as cover. He was right up on the pair before they noticed him. The younger of the two eyed the Nike bag slung under Isaac’s arm. He took a seat across from them, straddling it with one leg free. The bag went out of sight under the table. The younger man stuck out his hand and smiled.