A moment later, though, he said, “Cops? Why are they here?” as he lowered Moe to the floor, his eyes glassy, his voice a monotone, sounding like when you called a bank and got its automated phone system.
Oh yeah, this man was capable of stuffing him into a barrel of oil and burying him alive.
Moe gasped. “Everything’s okay. I’ve got great news!” Getting that out before he took a full breath, hoping to buy himself some time.
Bern waited.
“This was in the paper yesterday, but I missed it. Maybe you did, too. You’re not gonna believe how lucky we are.” He held the newspaper out.
Bern was thinking: In French Lick, you’d consider last night lucky? The town should be napalmed.
“Read this, boss. Talk about perfect timing.” Moe risked squatting to retrieve his straw hat. “And I’m saving the really good news for last.”
Bern used reading glasses. He placed the Luger on the desk and put on his glasses. As he did, Moe moved around the desk to the computer, creating some distance between them. Trying to act nonchalant, as if he didn’t care that the Luger was now within his reach.
If what the newspaper story said was true, Moe could shoot Bern and not spend a minute in jail. All he’d have to do is show cops the bruises on his neck from Bern’s fingers.
FLORIDA ENACTS TOUGH SELF-DEFENSE LAW
(Tallahassee) Yesterday, the Florida Legislature, in special session, enacted a tough and controversial self-defense law that allows citizens to use deadly force, on public or private property, as long as they believe they are in imminent mortal danger.
The new “Stand Your Ground Law” vastly broadens the criteria under which a potential victim may shoot and kill a perceived attacker. The victim need not be in his or her own home, and the attacker need not be armed.
Under the old law, a person who killed someone in their home must prove that they were in fear for their safety. The new law, however, is based on the presumption that anyone who illegally enters private property is intent on threatening the lives of the people within, and deadly force is justified.
Under the old law, if assaulted in a public place, a person must first attempt to “flee to safety,” and could use deadly force only if pursued by their attacker. The new law, however, accepts the legal premise that citizens have a right to “stand their ground” against a perceived attacker, no matter when or where, and deadly force is justified if the citizen feels in imminent danger.
Moe kept track of what his boss was doing. Used his peripheral vision to watch Bern standing there, the newspaper hiding his face—no telling how the man might react—while he sat at the computer, looking at the screen, seeing that Bern’s personal folder was open, a list of documents he’d saved there.
Some interesting ones:
How to Change Your Identity and Disappear Forever.
Costa Rica: The New Promised Land
Live Like a King in Old Mexico
Hmm. Looked like Bern was thinking about getting out of Dodge, the trauma of last night clearly affecting the man. Which would leave an executive position open in the family corporation—something Moe would discuss with his good friend Augie when Augie returned with the Viking.
Moe could empathize with Bern. On the way home, he’d pulled over to the ditch and vomited, thinking about the Cuban’s blood trail. He liked Javier. They’d drunk coffee together. Moe didn’t mean to shoot him; it had been accidental.
Moe had been a mess, but it had gotten worse when a drinking buddy of his called an hour ago and told him what the Marine Patrol had found floating only a hundred yards or so south of the marina docks. Moe had been reading the newspaper when he got the call. He’d just finished the story on the new Stand Your Ground Law, which had to be fate, because the timing was perfect, and it made him feel so much better.
Bern didn’t get the connection, though. He rattled the newspaper and folded it. “Why should I care about this? I thought you said you had good news.”
There was a document open on the computer. Looked like Bern had been copying and pasting fragments from sports articles, after having typed: “Dear Sir, Your All Time Greatest Team is missing a name.”
Moe said, “It is good news, but I want to show you,” as he skimmed what Bern had posted next:
Lyle Alzado, L.A. Raiders badass. Sid Gillman. Sid Luck-man. Benny Friedman. Ron Mix, called “the greatest tackle who ever lived.” Mike Rosenthal, star lineman at 6´7? 315 lbs. Hayden Epstein, Lennie Friedman, Sage Rosenfels, defensive end…
Bern said, “Show me what?” glancing at his watch: 6:15 P.M. Where the hell’s Augie with my boat? Then asked, “Why do you have that idiotic smirk on your face?”
Moe said, “This list of football players? I’ve never heard of any of them—”
“They’re great athletes, that’s who they are, you racist asshole! You couldn’t carry their jocks—as if it’s any of your fucking business. What do you want to show me?”
Moe stood, went around the desk, moving faster as he passed his boss, then opened the door. “You don’t have to worry about Javier no more, that’s the good news. Me neither, ’cause what I did is okay. He could’ve had a gun. We didn’t search him. Come on out, you can see it from the docks.”
A fisherman had found Javier Castillo’s body floating in the bay about three hundred yards south of the marina, Moe said.
From the docks, Bern and Moe watched EMTs and an investigator from the medical examiner’s office bag the body. It was an hour before sunset—pretty, beyond the raft of law enforcement boats, where the sky was yellow streaked above mangrove islands. In the shallows, long-legged birds waded, some of them flamingo pink, on this falling tide.
Sounding nervous again, Moe said, “The cops are probably looking for me right now. They’ll want to question me again. Jesus Christ, Bern. I killed a man. But I was afraid he was gonna shoot us, right?”
Bern was smiling for the first time in days. “Yeah.”
31
When we got back to Sanibel, Mack had to call the police to escort Augie off marina property. The sight of Jeth and Tomlinson sitting on the Viking’s flybridge, trying to back the monster into a Dinkin’s Bay slip was too much for him.
“That’s my boat. Indian Harbor’s property. You can’t just take what’s mine!”
We’d gotten a rope on the Viking while she was adrift. First Jeth, then Tomlinson, used the line to pull themselves aboard, then fired the twin Detroit diesels. They swung the vessel off its collision course with Estero Island, toward deeper water, then contacted John MacNeal through the marine operator. From the trawler’s pilothouse radio, we listened to them share the good news.
The boat was their custodial responsibility pending negotiations of a salvage fee, a date to be set sometime after the holidays. Until then, no Indian Harbor personnel were to be allowed aboard.
Augie had his uncle’s mean streak, but he didn’t have his self-control. As we turned into the marina basin, half an hour behind the much faster Viking, Augie was still pacing and fuming. “My personal belongings are on that fucking boat. Trippe’s, too. Our clothes, our wallets. My uncle has a ton of shit on the Viking, man, he loves that boat—which is worth a half million, easy!
“You think he beat the shit out of you before? Wait ’til he hears about this. What you’re doing is stealing!”