Tanzi's Game (Vince Tanzi Book 3) Read online

  “I forget where you teach.”

  “I’m an adjunct professor of Russian literature at Miami Dade.”

  “Really? I can’t get through that stuff,” I said. “But I have a friend who is crazy about it. He runs a book group for African American boys up in Gifford. Street kids reading Tolstoy.”

  “There’s a lot to learn from those books. Mostly about what not to do.”

  “That’s what Sonny says.”

  “Are you any closer to finding Lilian?”

  “No. I wish I was.”

  “She’s not having an affair. You knew that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Talk to my brothers. One of them is behind all this.”

  “Javier wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “Put his balls in a vise,” she said. “He’s a wimp when it comes down to it.”

  I almost spat out my coffee. What was that I said about her being soft-spoken?

  “Javier?”

  “He’s gay, if you didn’t notice. Closeted, of course, because we’re Cuban. My father used to call him maricón.”

  “I know plenty of gay people who aren’t wimps,” I said.

  “I don’t have a problem with gay men. But Javier is a liar, a crook, and a slimeball, and I wouldn’t doubt it if he had my father killed.”

  “Other than that, he’s a great guy, right?”

  She smiled as she took a sip of her coffee. “Be careful, Vince. Gustavo said that they already went after you.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I said.

  I looked at Gustavo Arguelles lying in his bed and hoped that I was right.

  *

  My phone buzzed with a text just as I was getting back into the BMW in the hospital parking lot. It took me a while to retrieve it from my pocket—the drive south to Coral Gables in the wee hours was starting to take its toll, and my bad leg ached.

  The text was from Barbara.

  Where R U?

  Coral Gables. Back ASAP, I wrote. So sorry about everything, I added. The shock of seeing Gustavo in his hospital bed had brought back the memory of my own months-long stay in a hospital in Vermont not so long ago. Barbara had been at my side the whole time. I hoped that we would get through this rough patch sooner rather than later.

  We really do need to talk, she wrote. And I realize that what you’re doing has to be done.

  Thank you, I sent back.

  Royal misses you.

  Isn’t he at the sitters?

  Just finished all my exams. I picked him up already. I’ll go get Roberto when school’s out.

  Thank you again, I sent. And congratulations.

  You’re a good person, Vince. I wish I was half as good as you.

  What? That didn’t sound like Barbara. She must be feeling beaten down by the nursing school exams, combined with everything else. I was suddenly worried about her.

  I love you, I sent, but she didn’t answer. Maybe she turned off her phone.

  *

  I had the choice of returning to Javier Pimentel’s office to compress his testicles, as his sister had suggested, or going back to Segundo’s place to grill Chloe Heffernan a little harder. She didn’t have any body parts that I could squeeze without getting my face slapped, but I sensed that it would be unnecessary as she was probably carrying a burden that she didn’t want, and would tell me where her boss was, sooner or later.

  It was sooner. My phone buzzed before I even left the garage.

  This is Chloe. Please call.

  I dialed the number and waited. Maybe I was going to save myself another trip.

  “Mr. Tanzi?” she said, as soon as she picked up.

  “Vince,” I corrected.

  “I’m going to tell you where he is. But there is a condition.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It can’t come from me. You don’t tell Segundo, and you don’t tell anyone else. Especially not the police.”

  “Why?”

  “Those are the terms,” she said. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  “I accept. And you won’t.”

  “He’s at his fishing camp on Blue Cypress Lake. Just outside of Vero.”

  “I know it,” I said. “I’ve fished there before. Is he at Middleton’s?”

  “No, he parks there and takes his boat. He has a place at the northern end of the lake, out on its own. They call it the Moonshiner’s Camp. It’s been there since the Prohibition days.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “Getting away—from all this,” she said. “I’m not going to go into it.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “And thank you. You’re doing the right thing.”

  “God, I hope so. I’m scared. Be careful.”

  “I will,” I said, for the second time this morning.

  *

  I had decided to take U.S. 27 through the Everglades so that I would avoid the heavy daytime traffic along the coast. It was a lot of two-lane traveling, but it only added about twenty minutes to the trip and was far more pleasant. The highway follows the eastern shore of Lake Okeechobee for about twenty-five miles and would ultimately lead me to Yeehaw Junction, slightly west of Blue Cypress Lake. There’s not much to look at along the way, but I was contenting myself by listening to Vince Gill’s guitar pickin’ on the car stereo, and he made me proud to share the same first name.

  It would be another hour’s drive before I got to the lake, and I wondered what I would find at Segundo Pimentel’s cottage.

  Segundo. Second brother.

  It hit me just as I was crossing over Taylor Creek into the town of Okeechobee. Gustavo had held out two fingers, meaning second, not the number two. That’s what he was trying to tell me. I suddenly realized that I was on the right track. I would locate the younger brother, and I would finally have a handle on what was going on. Gustavo was leading me to the person who would explain everything, who might even tell me where Lilian was.

  It could have also been a warning, as in: watch out for Segundo. I had my Glock in the back seat and a sawed-off in the trunk, and I thought about taking one or both of them with me as soon as I figured out how I was going to transport myself out to the Moonshiner’s Camp. I knew that you could rent boats from Middleton’s, the one-and-only settlement along Blue Cypress Lake, and I should be able to make it there by five PM, so with any luck they would still be open.

  Five PM—oh shit—I had made a follow-up appointment with Megan Rumsford for today at five, and had completely forgotten about it in the confusion of my whirlwind trip to Coral Gables. I had her personal number, which she’d insisted that I have in case I ever had a severe problem. I dialed it.

  “You’re not going to be happy about this,” I said. “I’m blowing you off. I can’t make my five o’clock.”

  “No worries,” she said. “What happened?”

  “I’m in Okeechobee, headed for Blue Cypress Lake,” I said. “I have to go visit a guy. It’s part of this thing I’m working on.”

  “Blue Cypress Lake? Like, Middleton’s Fish Camp? I go there all the time.”

  “Really?”

  “Where does this guy live?”

  “They call it Moonshiner’s-something,” I said.

  “I know it,” she said. “It’s about a mile up the shore from the launching ramp, tucked way back into the swamp. I take my paddleboard up there.”

  “I’m going to rent a boat, if I can get there before they close.”

  “Do you have a bathing suit with you?”

  “I keep one in the trunk,” I said. And I did. It was wrapped around my sawed-off, and it probably smelled like gun oil.

  “Stand up paddling is the best core therapy you could get,” she said. “You’ll love it. You should be doing it every day.”

  “Megan, this is business, not—”

  “No excuses, dude. You just blew off our appointment, so you’re going paddling with me instead. I’ll meet you at Middleton’s at five. Don’t worry, you can do your business.”


  “I’ve never even tried it,” I said. “What if I fall off?”

  “Then the water moccasins will get you.”

  “That’s a pretty good motivation to not fall off,” I said.

  *

  Middleton’s Fish Camp is at the end of a long rural road that winds through the citrus groves and farms west of Vero. It’s a throwback to the days before most of the state’s wetlands were drained to make way for roads, houses and agriculture, and is surrounded on three sides by the Blue Cypress Conservation Area, with the shoreline of the lake to the east. The settlement consists of a few dozen houses and trailers, an airboat tour company, and the Fish Camp, which rents boats, fishing tackle, and cabins for those who want to stay the night. The sportsmen get up early to go after the big bass, and when I pulled into the lot the place was deserted except for a line of pickups with empty boat trailers, waiting for their owners’ return.

  Megan’s yellow Jeep was already parked alongside a concrete ramp. She was dressed in a plain white T-shirt over a powder-blue bikini, and was unstrapping two paddleboards from the roof of her car. I parked next to her and got out to help.

  “Perfect timing,” she said, smiling.

  “What exactly are these things?” I helped her lower the boards. They looked like fat surfboards with padded foam tops. “This is one of your P.T. torture devices, right?”

  “Just what the name says. You stand up, and you paddle.”

  “I knew there was a catch.”

  “This is really good for you, Vince. Go get your suit on. There’s a portable john over there.”

  I disappeared into the portable toilet booth and struggled to get into my bathing trunks within the confined space. If I could change my clothes in one of those things, then I could probably handle one of Megan’s boards. When I came out she was standing on hers at the bottom of the launching ramp, and she beckoned me down to where she was tending mine. I had my automatic rolled up in a hand towel and wondered where the hell I was going to put it. Megan showed me a dry hatch that unscrewed, and I slipped the weapon inside, concealed by the towel. I didn’t want to worry her, but I also had no idea what I was about getting into, and I wasn’t going to go unarmed.

  My board was wobbly at first, but I quickly got used to the long paddle, and followed Megan’s instructions on how to steer. You used a J-shaped stroke to go forward and not veer off to one side, and after a while I was keeping up with her as we paddled through dead trees and water lilies. If we stayed close to the western shore of the lake we were in the shade, which was welcome in the late afternoon heat. No one else was out except for a pair of ospreys and a bald eagle that swooped down twenty yards from us to snatch a bass from the water’s surface. Sometimes I forget how beautiful the undisturbed Florida landscape is—as do many of the state’s residents who only know the strip malls, burger joints, beach condos and the other encroachments of civilization. Nature is no different from anything else that is precious: if you start taking it for granted, it will disappear.

  Megan took us north along the shore, and after we had paddled more than half a mile she led our boards into the mouth of a slow-moving stream that fed the lake. In the middle was a small island with a miniscule clearing and a three-sided cabin that was covered in moss but looked serviceable.

  “It’s another quarter mile to the Moonshine Camp,” she said. “Let’s rest here for a sec, OK?”

  “What is this?”

  “This is my happy place,” Megan said. “Just a little shack that nobody cares about. I come out here all the time to do yoga. Be sure to check for alligators before you land.”

  “Oh, I will,” I said. I found a good spot to beach the board and pulled it out of the water. Megan had a rolled-up rubber mat strapped to her board, which she removed and spread out on the floor of the cabin. Inside the mat was a large brown bottle of beer, and she popped open the lid and took a big swig.

  “Funky Buddha, from down in Oakland Park,” she said. “Want a sip? It’s still cold.”

  “I’m working. You really come out here a lot?”

  “Yeah. I can get naked, and it’s just me and the gators. Hold this, OK?” She passed the bottle to me and pulled off her T-shirt, and then began to unfasten the top of her bikini. Oh lordy. This time it wasn’t just a hit. It was the invasion of Normandy.

  “Megan—”

  “What?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. Somehow, I actually managed to look at a half-naked woman’s eyes instead of her chest, a feat that required a superhuman effort for any male with a sperm count above zero.

  “I’m not immune to this,” I said. “You know—”

  “Oh for god’s sake, Vince. It’s just a set of tits. If you’ve seen two, you’ve seen them all, right?”

  My field of vision slipped ever-so-slightly lower and I took in the view. Hers were tangerine-sized, with tiny nipples that were saying: Go ahead. Make my day.

  Tanzi’s Tip #4: Behind every temptation there is a nun waiting with a ruler.

  I composed myself, at least partially. “Megan, I’m a guy, OK? You need to put your shirt back on. And I can’t have a beer. I’m going out to question somebody, and I need to keep my head on straight.”

  She made no move to get dressed. “What’s this about?”

  “He’s my friend’s brother. The woman who’s missing. He may or may not have something to do with it. Their father was murdered a couple days ago, my friend’s husband is in the hospital, and things are getting worse by the minute. Plus, you’re twenty years younger than I am, I’m married, you’re my physical therapist, you’re friends with my wife, and—” I stopped, having exhausted the reasons why she should get her admittedly-spectacular gazungas out of my face before someone put an eye out.

  She frowned. “You go on ahead. Do your thing.”

  “That’s probably a good idea anyway,” I said. “I don’t know this guy.”

  “It’s the only place along the shoreline. You’ll see it—it’s up on stilts.”

  “OK.”

  “And Vince,” she said, taking back the bottle. “I’m not really friends with your wife, OK?”

  *

  The stretch of shoreline between Megan’s lean-to and Segundo Pimentel’s camp was a part of the lake that I was unfamiliar with. It wasn’t really shoreline, it was a classic Southern swamp complete with giant cypress trees draped with Spanish moss and stumps poking out from the water every few feet. I was starting to get the hang of the paddling; I could get the board to go in a more-or-less straight line after a while. The temperature must have been in the nineties, but the moss canopy provided some shade, and I wasn’t uncomfortable, although my shirt was soaked through. I wondered what Segundo Pimentel would think when a sweat-drenched, two-hundred-pound ex-P.I. pulled up to his hideaway on a surfboard, wanting to ask a few questions. With any luck he wouldn’t shoot me, which under the current Florida law you are entitled to do if anyone so much as threatens to give you a noogie.

  I was huffing and puffing my way around a bend in the shoreline when I spotted it. The house was about twenty feet long on each side, and was built on stilts above the water, like Megan had said. It wore a fresh coat of beige paint, and an expensive-looking bass boat with a big Mercury outboard was tied up to a dock that ran along the near side. That was good—if the boat was there, then somebody must be home.

  As I paddled closer to the dock I noticed that it was already occupied. Two young alligators, one about eight feet long and one slightly smaller, were sunning themselves on the floating structure. They eyed me as I approached, and then lazily slid sideways off the low dock into the murky water. I ceased paddling and froze, but the momentum of the board was carrying me forward, right toward them, so I carefully dipped a blade in the water and attempted to steer away. Gators generally won’t bother you if you leave them alone, but my wobbly paddleboard suddenly felt way less stable than it had before, and I was praying that I wouldn’t end up as someone’s chew toy. Eventually they swam off, and I
was able to land the board on the dock and carefully pull it up out of the water.

  “Hello? Mr. Pimentel?” I called out, before climbing the steps from the dock to a deck that surrounded Segundo Pimentel’s camp. The close encounter with gators had somehow relieved me of any concerns about being shot. “It’s Vince Tanzi—I’m a friend of Lilian and Gustavo. Anybody home?” I climbed up five steps and found a screen door. It was wide open, and I could see inside all the way across a single, open room. A gas stove was to the left of me, with a sink next to it that was fed by an old-fashioned hand pump. Kerosene lanterns hung from the ceiling, and fishing tackle was everywhere. In the center of the room a rattan sofa and two chairs surrounded a glass coffee table, and to my right was an alcove that held a built-in double bed. The only sound was the low hum from a small refrigerator that I figured must be hooked up to a propane tank—the nearest power line was a mile away. The house was definitely a man’s getaway, but it was clean and tidy, and I noticed a cluster of women’s magazines to one side of the coffee table, so the inhabitants hadn’t necessarily been exclusively male.

  Segundo was nowhere to be seen. I peeked into the alcove, where the bed was unmade. No clothes were strewn around, no food on the counter. I opened the fridge, which contained a bottle of milk, a carton of eggs, a big jug of water and a six-pack of Bud Light. I sniffed the milk, and it was fresh—Pimentel may not be in the house now, but he had been recently. I wondered how he had managed to leave without his boat, but perhaps he owned more than one. Or maybe he was out on a paddleboard with his own bare-chested amazon.

  It was the open screen door that was bothering me. There was no spring on it, but when I shut it, it stayed in place. The weather was still, and there had been no breeze to blow it open. The biting bugs don’t come out in force until after sunset, but there was no sense inviting them in whatever the time. People on these lakes were in the habit of keeping their screens shut.

  I didn’t like it.

  I walked to the back of the house along the wraparound deck. Someone could probably drop a line from right here and snag a nice bullhead. I continued around the perimeter until I returned to the steps and saw that the larger of the two alligators was back on the dock. Damn. How was I going to get back down there? I looked for something to throw at him, hoping that I could shoo him away before he knocked my paddleboard into the lake.