I shot him in the face. He went over backward, the shotgun discharging into the ceiling. I rushed the body, ready to pump another round into him. It wasn't necessary. His eyes were open just above the entry wound to the right of his nose. Some air escaped through his open mouth, a gurgling sound emanating from his throat. The death rattle.
I positioned myself beside the doorway, waiting to see who else was coming up the stairs. Fats was sitting in the chair, a yellow stain spreading across the white towel draped over his lap. I didn't blame him. That shotgun scared the piss out of me too. His breathing was irregular, his eyes wide in fright.
Feet pounded the floor of the room below. It sounded like one man running. The front door slammed, and a moment later tires careened over the shell parking lot. A car coming off the street, fast. A door slammed, and the vehicle screeched out of the parking lot, its tires loudly grabbing the pavement.
I ran to the window over the bed and looked out. A green sedan was on Cortez Road heading east. It was too far away for me to see its license plate or to even determine the make of car. It was gone.
I turned to Fats. "You okay?"
"Not really. What the hell's going on?"
"I don't know, but somebody got me over here to kill me. Looks like they wanted to kill you too."
I took out my cell phone and called Logan. I told him where I was and what had happened. "Stay inside," I said. "If they came for me, they may come for you too. Call Bill Lester and tell him what's going on. I'm calling 911."
After I told the emergency operator where I was and why I needed the police, I turned to Fats. He was still breathing hard, but he'd gotten himself cleaned up and put on a pair of shorts.
"Why would somebody want to kill you?" I asked.
"Don't know"
"Look, Fats. Somebody's out to get me and probably you as well. Once the cops get here they're going to separate us and you're not going to be able to tell me what's going on. Do it now, and maybe I can figure out how to save our asses. Does this have something to do with Jake Yardley?"
"Probably. There's a lot I can't tell you, Mr. Royal, but I'll tell you what I can."
"Call me Matt."
"Okay, Matt. I knew Clyde Varn from way back. I recognized him right away, the first time he came in here. He said his name was Jake Yardley, but I knew better."
"Where did you know him from?"
"Down in the Keys, and later, Miami."
"How did you know him?"
"We worked for the same outfit."
"Come on, Fats. We don't have all day. Spell it out."
"We worked for Javier Savanorola. He was in the drug business. Clyde was hired muscle. I handled the books and kept the IRS offJavier's back.
"The feds came down on us hard six or seven years ago. Clyde and I both testified for the government. He disappeared, and I figured Javier had him killed. I left town, changed my name, and bought this place."
"Didn't Clyde recognize you when he came in?"
"No," Fats said. "I've gained about a hundred pounds, and when we worked together Iliad a full beard. I don't think anybody from those days would recognize me."
"What was your name?"
"Can't tell you, Matt. Sorry."
"Did you spend much time with Varn?"
"For a while. He lived up the street in the trailer park and would come in most days. We'd sit here at the bar and talk."
"About what?"
"Sports, mostly. He did tell me that he came here from Kansas, but he never told me anything else of a personal nature."
"How did he make his living?" I asked.
"I don't know. He never said anything about a job."
"Could he have been doing work for the drug guys in South Florida?"
"I doubt it. They put a contract out on him after he testified against them. I figured that's why he changed his name."
I heard sirens in the distance, drawing closer. Tires crunched onto the shell parking lot. Car doors slammed. Feet ran on the cement floor below, the leather boot soles making slapping sounds. Leather equipment holders creaked, and I heard a rifle chambering a round.
"Up here," I called out. "We're unarmed."
There was quiet for a beat, two, and then a voice, strained with tension, came from below. "Come to the door where I can see you. Hands over your head. Come out slow"
I lay my gun on the bed and eased over to the door, hands raised. I stood by the jamb and said, "I'm coming out. Here are my hands." I stuck them into the doorway. If some trigger-happy cop was going to shoot, I'd rather he hit my hands than my chest.
"Show yourself," came the voice from below.
"I'm coming out," I said, and slipped into full view in the doorway, hands high.
"Anybody else up there?"
"One live and one dead guy," I said. "The live one's coming over now."
I looked back at Fats. He was standing with his hands up. I nodded. He started walking slowly toward me. Heavy footsteps were bounding up the stairs. Just as Fats got to me, a sheriff's deputy came through the doorway and shoved a rifle into my gut.
"Move back," said the cop.
I did, being careful not to step on the body.
Another deputy came through the doorway, pistol drawn. He looked at the dead guy, stopped, reached down, and felt for a pulse in his neck. He stood back up, shaking his head, and looked at me. "Who're you?"
"I'm Matt Royal. I live on Longboat Key. I have identification. The gun on the bed is mine. I shot this guy with it."
The cop nodded, then looked at Fats.
"I'm Fats Monahan. I live here."
The deputy took a deep breath. "The detectives will be here in a minute," he said. "Let's just sit tight until they get here. Don't touch anything."
He signaled us to put our hands down. He walked over to the bed and stood by it, not touching the nine millimeter lying on the tangled sheets, but making sure that neither Fats nor I could get to it.
The other deputy turned and yelled down the stairs. "We're cool up here. Send the detectives in when they get here."
We stood silently for a few moments. I could hear traffic whizzing by out on Cortez Road. Somewhere in the building, an air-conditioning unit clicked on. Cool air rushed out of a vent in the ceiling that I hadn't noticed. A car horn, the short squeal of brakes, a diesel engine accelerating, the ambient noise of early morning in a quiet neighborhood.
I heard another car coming to a stop on the shell parking lot. In a minute a voice from below said, "Detective coming up." The deputies in the room seemed to relax; glad someone was here to take control.
A man of about six feet, slender with a small belly, dark hair going to gray, and a bald spot that would eventually claim his head, stepped into the room. He wore a beige sports jacket with brown pants, white dress shirt, and a red tie with small white polka dots. A gold badge was held in place over his jacket pocket by its leather case. "I'm Detective David Sims," he said. "What the hell happened here?"
The deputy who had entered the room first said, "We just got here, Detective. We secured the area, but we haven't talked to the witnesses. This is Mr. Royal and that's Fats Monahan. I haven't seen their IDs yet."
The detective looked at me. "Let's see," he said, holding out his right hand.
I reached for my wallet and handed him my driver's license. He looked at it and handed it back. He looked at Fats.
Fats pointed to a wallet lying on the table beside the bed. "Mine's in the wallet."
The detective made a "come on" move with his fingers, and Fats crossed to the table and picked up the wallet, extracted his license, and handed it to the detective. Sims glanced at it and handed it back.