hard to say. Keep in touch.” Nelson ground his cigar into an ashtray and headed for the door.
Meadows felt awful.
“I still think I’m right. If you decide to arrest him, I’ll come back,” he ventured.
Nelson waved his hand airily.
“Don’t worry about it. Mono is one of those guys who ends up floating in the bay. He’ll never get his in a courtroom.”
A silence grew, became awkward.
“Do you want a ride to the airport?” Nelson asked.
“No, thanks. I’ll make a few calls to friends in New York, and I have the house to close up first. I’ll make the last flight.”
“Why don’t you go fishing? I love fishing,” Nelson said. He stared at the sleeping bay with black eyes that were a universe away. “We used to fish a lot in Cuba when I was a boy, me, my father and my brother. I’ll never forget the day my brother caught a big shark and was so scared he wouldn’t even cut the line. Just stood there, frozen, with the rod in his hand and the shark rapping the side of the boat.
“I never go fishing anymore; there’s never time. Now to get away, I dream instead. You know what I dream, amigo? I dream that one day I’m going to round up all the cocaine cowboys in this town and I’m going to take them to the Orange Bowl. It would be quite a crowd. Then I’d line them up, and I’d walk down the line like a platoon sergeant. To the guy at the front of the line I’d say, ‘Oye, José, do you remember how your compadre Luis got shot so many times they couldn’t count the holes? Well, this hijo de puta who did that is named Carlos, and he’s here in this line with a big grin on his face.’
“Then I’d walk down along the line to Carlos, and I’d say, ‘ Hermano, I never could understand why they made your buddy Paco suffer so bad. If they had to kill him, that’s one thing; we all understand that. But could you ever figure out why they cut him and made him scream toward the end? Did they have to jam the coke up his ass, and why did they laugh when he started to scream? It was terrible, let me tell you. And did you know that the cabrón José who did that to your friend is right here, right now?’
“I’d make six or seven stops like that, walking down the line.
“Then, amigo, I would toss a couple of loaded submachine guns out there on the fifty-yard line in the Orange Bowl, and I would walk out and lock all the gates.
“And an hour later I would go back inside and finish off the wounded. Then I would go fishing.
“You like fishing, Meadows? Do me a favor. Go fishing.”
Chapter 9
ONCE MIAMI INTERNATIONAL Airport dwelt in lonely splendor in the moist flatlands between the city and the Everglades. Now it is surrounded entirely by the tropical metropolis it serves, one of the busiest terminals in the world, a north-south funnel where every minute is rush hour. Flights to Santiago and flights to Seattle. Refrigerators for Grand Bahama and millionaires for Aspen. Christopher Meadows had never known the airport in its youth, in the days before cheap air-conditioning made Miami a magnet for northerners who learned that final escape from bitter winter was worth the long summers.
It amused him, nevertheless, to know that Miami International remained an official refuge for the burrowing owl and that rabbits, raccoons, squirrels and tropical birds of a hundred varieties lived in the grassy fringes alongside the giant runways. Meadows prized the airport. It was fifteen minutes from everywhere; eleven minutes by back road, to be exact, from his Coconut Grove haven.
He drove slowly that night, deep in thought. He had plenty of time for the last New York flight, and for once there had been room. He was tired, washed-out. Too much too quick, and too much Jack Daniel’s to boot. It would take a good night’s sleep and a long walk in the morning to restore mental order from the jumble of fear, curiosity and Tennessee whiskey.
Afraid? Jesus! There by the pool, with the lizard, he had come within
Meadows felt awful.
“I still think I’m right. If you decide to arrest him, I’ll come back,” he ventured.
Nelson waved his hand airily.
“Don’t worry about it. Mono is one of those guys who ends up floating in the bay. He’ll never get his in a courtroom.”
A silence grew, became awkward.
“Do you want a ride to the airport?” Nelson asked.
“No, thanks. I’ll make a few calls to friends in New York, and I have the house to close up first. I’ll make the last flight.”
“Why don’t you go fishing? I love fishing,” Nelson said. He stared at the sleeping bay with black eyes that were a universe away. “We used to fish a lot in Cuba when I was a boy, me, my father and my brother. I’ll never forget the day my brother caught a big shark and was so scared he wouldn’t even cut the line. Just stood there, frozen, with the rod in his hand and the shark rapping the side of the boat.
“I never go fishing anymore; there’s never time. Now to get away, I dream instead. You know what I dream, amigo? I dream that one day I’m going to round up all the cocaine cowboys in this town and I’m going to take them to the Orange Bowl. It would be quite a crowd. Then I’d line them up, and I’d walk down the line like a platoon sergeant. To the guy at the front of the line I’d say, ‘Oye, José, do you remember how your compadre Luis got shot so many times they couldn’t count the holes? Well, this hijo de puta who did that is named Carlos, and he’s here in this line with a big grin on his face.’
“Then I’d walk down along the line to Carlos, and I’d say, ‘ Hermano, I never could understand why they made your buddy Paco suffer so bad. If they had to kill him, that’s one thing; we all understand that. But could you ever figure out why they cut him and made him scream toward the end? Did they have to jam the coke up his ass, and why did they laugh when he started to scream? It was terrible, let me tell you. And did you know that the cabrón José who did that to your friend is right here, right now?’
“I’d make six or seven stops like that, walking down the line.
“Then, amigo, I would toss a couple of loaded submachine guns out there on the fifty-yard line in the Orange Bowl, and I would walk out and lock all the gates.
“And an hour later I would go back inside and finish off the wounded. Then I would go fishing.
“You like fishing, Meadows? Do me a favor. Go fishing.”
Chapter 9
ONCE MIAMI INTERNATIONAL Airport dwelt in lonely splendor in the moist flatlands between the city and the Everglades. Now it is surrounded entirely by the tropical metropolis it serves, one of the busiest terminals in the world, a north-south funnel where every minute is rush hour. Flights to Santiago and flights to Seattle. Refrigerators for Grand Bahama and millionaires for Aspen. Christopher Meadows had never known the airport in its youth, in the days before cheap air-conditioning made Miami a magnet for northerners who learned that final escape from bitter winter was worth the long summers.
It amused him, nevertheless, to know that Miami International remained an official refuge for the burrowing owl and that rabbits, raccoons, squirrels and tropical birds of a hundred varieties lived in the grassy fringes alongside the giant runways. Meadows prized the airport. It was fifteen minutes from everywhere; eleven minutes by back road, to be exact, from his Coconut Grove haven.
He drove slowly that night, deep in thought. He had plenty of time for the last New York flight, and for once there had been room. He was tired, washed-out. Too much too quick, and too much Jack Daniel’s to boot. It would take a good night’s sleep and a long walk in the morning to restore mental order from the jumble of fear, curiosity and Tennessee whiskey.
Afraid? Jesus! There by the pool, with the lizard, he had come within
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