These Jamaican mobsters, they liked their big knives. Well, they were no exception. I took from the armory two cutting weapons. One a military issue KA-BAR, the other an illegal push dagger that I slipped down inside my boot along my left ankle. I felt good to go. But there was something I had to do first.
Using my cell, I asked first Velasquez, then McTeer to stay clear of the office until I gave them the all clear. Both men offered me their services, but I told them to enjoy their downtime. Rink wasn’t due back from his mom’s place for a few days, so I didn’t trouble the big guy. I knew if I called him, he’d be on the next plane out of San Francisco however forcefully I told him not to.
Despite the heat, I pulled on a lightweight bomber jacket and ball cap, then locked up the office, going out the back way once more. I retraced my steps along the service alley to the first cross street and then decided that if I was going to draw out the Jamaicans, then now was as good a time as any. I headed for the main strip and turned for Jolie’s café, still two blocks up on the right.
Before making it as far as Jolie’s, I crossed the street, jaywalking on a red light. A block ahead of me my Audi A8 waited. So did a tall black man. He was coal dark, bald headed: not the guy who’d spoken with Jolie about me. He was sitting on the hood of my car, arms crossed on his chest, sinewy muscles glistening under the sun. He wasn’t looking my way but across at the café.
I picked up my pace, but not enough to draw the baldy’s attention, slipping into step with other pedestrians on the street. I kept my head down and facing forward, the peak of the cap casting a shadow on my face, but scanned to the right. As I neared my car I got a clear look across the street to where the outdoor tables were grouped on the sidewalk. I instantly recognized Jolie, who was standing talking with another black man. This one had café-au-lait skin and Bob Marley hair.
Seems I wasn’t the only one with a raised alert level, because it was as if he sensed my scrutiny and turned to gaze at me. Even from across the street I could see he had intense jade-green eyes. Jolie also spotted me; she tried to distract the Jamaican, but he brushed her off with a flippant wave of his hand. Seeing the intensity in his friend, the guy perched on my Audi turned to follow his gaze. By then I’d put my right hand in my jacket pocket, and I pushed out with my index finger. He saw the positioning of my jacket and assumed that I’d a weapon pointed at him. Oldest, cheesiest trick in the book, but it still gets some people worried.
The baldy slid off the hood of my car, unfolding his arms. He set his weight on his back foot. By now I was ten feet away, and as far as he could tell within point-blank range.
“Tandeh, mon,” he said, holding out a hand.
I hadn’t a clue what he said, but judging by his gesture he meant, “Stay there,” or, “Wait.”
“Move away from my car,” I said.
“Ease up. Everything’s irei, mon,” he said.
“No, everything isn’t all right,” I said. I looked for his friend and saw the other man approaching from across the street. Like his pal he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. No unusual shapes under the clothing, which meant they were unarmed. I turned so that I was at an angle, able to watch both men at the same time. In the background Jolie was watching, a hand fisted at her throat. I gave her a subtle headshake, encouraged her to go back inside her café. Jolie backed away but continued to watch from the shadows of her doorway. Brave woman, I thought. Most people would have buried their heads in the sand, but Jolie looked the type who’d come to my rescue with only her fingernails for weapons. But then, I was a good customer.
The dreadlocked guy came to a halt, standing on the roadway. The curb was high, but he still met me eye for eye. He was tall. He was also young and fit, his muscles equally as defined as his buddies.
“You’ve been asking about me,” I said. “What do you want?”
“I think you know that already,” said Dreadlocks. His English was clearer than his friend’s, and I wondered if he’d spent some time across the Atlantic. That, or — judging by his lighter skin coloration — one of his parents was a British Caucasian.
I considered his words.
“You looking for revenge?”
It was the bald man who answered. He laughed harshly. “Hector. Im run de Jamdung Rude Bwoy bizness. Im nuttin, mon.”
I caught half of the words, but got the drift. Hector ran the business in Jamaica, but he was nothing.”
“Hector was a piece of shit,” I agreed. It was pointless disputing who I was or what I’d done: they knew. “He chopped the fingers off a boy, and was about to rape a girl.”
“Ha! Im be tinking im mantell. Im kyaan lock im hose off.”
“I have no idea of what you just said.”
Dreadlocks explained. “Hector always thought he was the man. He couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.”
“So you have a pretty low opinion of him. You didn’t come looking for me for revenge then?”
“Not on Hector’s behalf.” Dreadlocks moved off the road, stepping up alongside his pal. “But you cost us a big payday. We can’t allow that to happen again.”
“That right?”
“That’s right. We can’t have you ruining any of our future schemes.” Dreadlocks flicked a lazy hand toward Jolie’s café, and made another languid gesture in the general direction of Rington Investigations. “Some people might get hurt.”
“Your beef’s with me, no one else.”
“You strike me as the type who cares more about others than he does about himself.”
“Enough to fight to the death for them,” I assured him.
The baldy laughed at my front. “Naa mek im vex, mon,” He said, with a look of pride for his friend. “Mi naa jesta, im tak your head.”
“You’re forgetting I’m the one with the gun,” I said. “What’s to stop me taking off both your heads?”
Dreadlocks hooked his thumbs in his waistband. Nonchalant. “If you have a gun it’s not in that pocket.”
I took out my hand, my finger pointing at his gut. I gave him a lazy smile. “As if I’m going to shoot you with all of these witnesses watching. Where do you want to do this?”
“You choose,” said Dreadlocks.
“Where are your wheels?”
Dreadlocks jerked his head, indicating a blue Ford parked behind my Audi.
“Get in your car,” I told him. “Go back to Miami and forget all about me. Or follow me. Your choice.”
“Only one choice for me,” he said. Then, with a grin for his pal, he slipped into patois, adding, “Mi muss a go kill mi dead.”
Between Downtown and the Channel District off Meridian Avenue is a space dominated by railway tracks and sidings. Many freight companies have warehouses in the area, as well as there being a number of factories and mills. Near to one such mill, along a street where the trucks had long ago torn up the asphalt to display ancient cobbles beneath, was a deserted industrial unit. It had stood empty for a couple of years, a victim of the economic downturn. I only knew about the place having tracked a thief to the unit a few months earlier, and discovered his stash of stolen goods. The thief got off with a stern warning — and a lump on his head — and his wares were liberated and returned to their respective owners. I’d tagged the building’s location, never expecting that it would serve the purpose I had in mind for it now.