Filed to story: Return of the Reaper Story
Two solid bits of evidence were not unaffected by being submersed in the brackish swill. A man’s wallet containing over a thousand dollars in cash, a Shell card and a driver’s license and registration from Alabama. There was also a key ring with a remote for a Chevy vehicle. That matched the registration paper. A five-year-old Avalanche.
The photocopy of the license showed a white man in close-cropped hair looking dead-eyed into the camera.
“Could be the man I saw on the video at Wolo’s,” Symon said to the gathering of men in the living room of his condo. The room was dense with smoke from cigars and cigarettes.
They were young and old. Ukrainians, Russians, Armenians and Latvians. All were Vor. All cooperated in a blood brotherhood that went beyond race or language or family, with rules and a code of honor more rigid than any army. They called themselves ‘thieves-in-law’ and answered only to their own set of laws and recognized no other.
“What is his business with us?” said an Armenian named Yuri.
“He is nothing to us. He has dealings with Dimi, Wolo’s son,” Symon said.
One of the men made a spitting sound at the mention of Dimi’s name.
“Danya and Vanko were looking for Dimi. They must have found the man from the video. Tried to take him captive. Something went wrong,” Symon said.
“The robbery at Skip’s. Wolo dead. Your sons dead. This is not only about that piece of shit Dimi,” said Oreske, a man older than Symon and underboss to the Vor chief in Miami.
“Dimi sold the man drugs. The man paid him with money I believe came from the robbery at Skip’s,” Symon said.
“Who told you this?” Oreske said.
“Dimi. I have him. He told me what he knows. Or as much as he wants me to know. He says he never met the man. Dimi does not know him except through some gang Dimi has business with,” Symon said.
“He must know. Dimi must know what this man is about, why he is in Tampa making hell for us,” Soshi, a fat Georgian said.
“Dimi knows he is the key to all of this. He knows that as long as we have questions I will allow him to live. I say we ask the man himself,” Symon said and held up an enlarged photo copy of the driver’s license of Isaac Edward Kane of 1001 Willow Run Rd, apartment 3A, Moore’s Mill, Alabama.
Joe Bob Wiley’s cell twanged two bars of “I Walk The Line”. He plucked it off his belt. Unknown number.
“You got Joe Bob. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Wiley. Don’t say my name.”
“Hell, son. I thought you ran off on me. What have you learned? Can you tell me anything?”
“I’m getting closer, sir. There’s been a snag.”
“What about Jenna? You find out something?”
“It’s pretty involved. I know all the players now.”
“That doesn’t help me or my wife. I need you to do what I’m paying you for.”
“I understand that, sir. I just don’t have anything for you right now.”
“Well, pardon my asking but why the hell’d you call me then?”
“The players I talked about, sir. They know who I am now.”
“Shit.”
“That’s all on me, sir. I’m dealing with it now.”
“You telling me that if they know you then they know me.”
“No, sir. There’s no connection between me and you and why I’m here.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“Just an FYI, sir. Keeping you informed.”
“Just find Jenna.”
“I will, sir. You have my word.”
The line went dead.
Less than an hour passed and the reception desk called.
“Outside call for you, Mr. Wiley. Line four.”
“Who is it, Debbie?”
“She says she’s from Gulfside Moving and Storage. Question about an employee.”
He punched line four.
“You got Joe Bob. What can I do for you?”
“This is human resources for Gulfside Moving. Is this someone in charge?”
“Only the goddamned owner, honey. Joseph Wiley of Wiley-Manners.”
“We wanted to talk to your human resources department but we’re told you don’t have one.” The woman on the other end had an edge of nervousness to it. It sounded like her first day on the job. Or she was lying.
“I do all the hiring here. Where you calling from?”
A pause.