Paulie finally turned left toward the bay, and I swung in behind him. The street was typical of the key, winding and heavily wooded on both sides, with wide stretches of space between the houses. It was dark and gloomy under the trees, and my tires hit several low places that sent up sprays of dirty water. Paulie switched on his lights, but I drove without mine. I didn’t want to call attention to myself.
The closer we got to the bay, the more often Paulie slowed the Hummer and hesitated at driveways. I supposed he was searching for an address or for something familiar about a house.
He slowed even more when he came to a stretch where heavy rain had caused power and sewer damage. Several large panel trucks were parked along the curb, and a big orange backhoe was maneuvering into position in the middle of the street. Barriers had been erected in the street to mark a spot for digging, and a group of men in black rain slickers and rain hats stood by to watch the operation. Beyond the backhoe, an FPL truck with a raised cherry picker crane and two men inside the bucket stood beside a streetlight.
As if all the activity surprised him, Paulie came to a complete stop in the street and looked at the workers for a moment before he turned into the driveway of a one-story stucco house. The garage door began rising, and a curtain twitched aside at one of the lighted windows. A girl illuminated by inside lamplight peered out at the workmen in the street. She looked frantic, and her mouth opened as if she was trying to get their attention.
It was Jaz.
Somebody jerked her away, and the curtain closed.
While Paulie waited for the garage door to rise high enough to drive under, I came to a lurching stop at the curb behind a Verizon truck.
The garage door reached its tallest height and Paulie drove inside.
A voice somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind spoke in a flat, unemotional voice: You know what you have to do.
The thing about internal voices is that they call you to action right then. No time to think about it, no time for debates, no time to weigh consequences. Normal people would say what I did next was insane, but normal people have never met themselves face-to-face.
As the garage door began a rattling descent, I opened my car door and ran like hell. The garage door was about four feet from the ground when I got to it, and I swooped under it and duck-walked to the rear of the Hummer.
Paulie was hauling Siesta Grill take-out bags from the Hummer and trying to figure out how to carry all of them in one trip. Stacking them and balancing them taxed his brain, but he finally managed to gather them all in both arms. Without a free arm to keep his low-hanging pants from falling, he had to walk spraddle legged to the back door. He kicked the door to get somebody’s attention, and when the door opened he dropped some of the bags.
The young guy who’d opened the door said, “Fuck, Paulie, you’re spilling stuff!”
Paulie said, “So pick it up! I’m the one doing all the work here!”
He went inside and kicked the door shut, and I crept forward. Half the people I know never lock the inside doors to their garages. With luck, gang members wouldn’t lock theirs either. I pressed an ear against the door and heard muffled male conversation, a couple of shouts, and then silence. I hoped the silence meant they had carried the food into another room.
Gingerly, I tried the doorknob. It turned, and I pushed the door open far enough to look inside. The kitchen was so messy and dirty it would have turned the stomach of an orangutan, but nobody was in it. From what I judged to be the living room, male voices argued over who had ordered what. The voices surprised me. I had expected young voices, but these were deep grown-up voices.
High on adrenaline, I crept forward. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a weapon. I didn’t have an idea of what I was going to do. All I knew was that young men who were members of a street gang had taken Jaz captive, and that she was still alive.
In the living room, a gruff voice said, “Goddam good thing you didn’t bring us more pizza. Or those damn chicken buckets. I didn’t come all this way to eat drive-through crap.”
Several other men made vigorous agreeing noises, all of them apparently fed up with what they’d been eating. But who were they?
I moved faster. With all the noise they were making, plus the dull sound of the rain and the clatter of the backhoe digging up the street, I figured the sound of my Keds moving across the kitchen tile wouldn’t be noticed.
Another man said, “At least one of those punks is good for something. I still don’t know why you brought them.”
A sharp voice said, “How many times do I have to explain it? I brought them to get that girl. If we let her testify, it’ll bring a shitload of trouble on all of us.”
Chilled, I listened to other men point out that the job hadn’t been done yet. As if Jaz were a rabid animal they’d caught in a trap and needed to dispose of, their only point of agreement was that the longer she lived, the more all of them were in jeopardy.
Hugging the wall, I slipped out of the kitchen and into a dining area where a table was heaped with briefcases and laptops. The space formed the foot of an L between the kitchen and living room. Cautiously, I edged to the corner and tilted my head so one eye could peek into the living area.
About a dozen men were in the room, and it was immediately apparent what the pecking order was. Two of them sat on a long sofa with a two-man space between them. They wore expensive slacks and dress shirts. Their shoes were polished and they wore dark socks that didn’t expose any leg. Each had a grandmotherly TV tray set up to hold food and a wineglass. Their food had been transferred from clamshell boxes to real plates, and they had real flatware. Three other similarly dressed and TV-trayed men sat in club chairs.
Other men were younger and dressed as if they were junior executives or midlevel employees. They sat on the floor with their legs stretched out and Styrofoam containers open on their laps. They had cans of beer rather than wine. The youngest, in sloppy jeans and droopy T-shirts, were Paulie and his two bottom-of-the-barrel friends. They were awkwardly serving the men on the sofa and chairs, fearfully making sure they had the dinner they’d ordered, pouring wine in their glasses, offering them extra napkins and salt and pepper from the carry-out bags.
At the far side of the room, a dark, broad-chested man with a curly black beard leaned in a doorway and watched the action. From the respectful way everybody looked at him, even the important guys on the sofa and chairs, I knew he was the most dangerous man in the room. He wore an exquisitely tailored black suit, black silk shirt, and black tie. Jet-black hair curved around his ears, and heavy gold bracelets glinted at his wrists. Even with the house darkened by rain, his eyes were hidden behind slim dark glasses. Everything about the man said he had an obsidian heart as black as his suit.
Realization hit, and my heart struggled against its cage like a panicked bird. The man in the doorway was the big shot Maureen had talked about, the one from Colombia who was here to appoint a North American drug czar, and the men who looked like executives were crime bosses. In a sickeningly rational move, the mob head from L.A. had brought Paulie and his friends to find Jaz and kill her. Without her, there would be no murder trial of his young street dealers, therefore no fallout that could hurt him.
With a take-out bag dangling from one hand, Paulie turned to the man leaning in the doorway. As if he were speaking to a coiled snake, he said, “Uh, sir, where do you want yours?”
Silently, the man crooked a finger at Paulie. Everybody in the room stopped eating to watch Paulie carry the bag to him. Without speaking, the man took the bag, and Paulie hurried away like a cowed dog to take a seat on the floor. At the door, the man extended the bag toward somebody inside the room.