 
n

DIABLA

MEETS

BIG JU JU

By

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2014

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn and Rosalie, my patient readers, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.

DIABLA MEETS BIG JU JU

By

Karl Tutt

Chapter 1

"Wash your car, Mister?"

The speaker was small and very dark. His voice had a childish lilt to it, but he was trying hard to sound like the man he wanted to become. He held a bucket full of sudsy water, and a couple of red rags hung from his back pockets. His eyes danced with a glint that was full of mischief, but had an ancient glow that might become wisdom if he lasted long enough on the streets.

Ricky looked at him and smiled. "Just washed her, myself. She should be clean."

"You don' look too hard," he instructed, "water spot, streak on de windshield. I make her shine like a Caddy XLR shud. I give you deal. Full buff for five dollar. Take me ten minute at mos'."

Ricky looked at me and laughed under his breath. "We're in no hurry, are we Dee? Let's get a cup of coffee and see if this young gentleman is good for his word."

"You no worry about Henri. He give you de bes' bang for de buck you get. You come back, you see you face in de shine."

Ricky crouched and got face to face with the tiny entrepreneur. "Okay Henri, I'm trusting you with my car. You do the job, you get paid. Don't let me down."

The child beamed. Ricky stuck his hand out and the kid shook it with almost too much energy. Then he reached deep into his front pocket and pulled out a chamois. He held it up for Ricky to inspect. It was worn, but soft and stainless.

My partner and I walked down to Chico's and ordered Columbian black.

"I used to wash cars when I was kid," he said, "but we worked cheap. A buck apiece and I was damned glad to have it. Lucky if I made five a day."

"Cute kid," I said, "must be Haitian. I haven't seen him in the neighborhood before. What? Maybe ten or so?"

Ricky nodded. "Hey, the kid wants to work. Let him make an honest dollar. Beats hustling weed or shoplifting. If he does a good job, maybe we can find something else for him to do."

"You got that right, Sir."

We talked about a few cases we were working on, but overall they were pretty damned boring. Nasty divorces, a couple of financial investigations. Ricky Fuenes and I had partnered up after we were asked politely to turn in our badges. We had our own office with our names on the door. That and four quarters might get you a cup of bad coffee. Rod, my former lover, our new junior senator from Florida and secret client, had come through with some leads that had proved financially advantageous. In other words, they paid on time. But the lives of the rich and famous just weren't all they were cracked up to be. Same petty concerns, same problems as the poor folks, just a little more drama . . . and only because they sometimes made the headlines. It was our job to see that didn't happen.

If you're reading this, you probably read about me before. I'm still Dee Rabow, the tough detective that the boys at the police precinct nicknamed Diabla. It's Spanish for she-devil. I wish I could tell you it was a compliment, but in cop-speak the rough translation is "bitch." At times, it fits quite nicely.

We finished our coffee and ambled back to the car. Henri was right. The hood was a mirror. Ricky could have combed that thick Cuban hair in the reflection. The kid stood nearby at attention like a soldier about to be awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor by our president. He didn't open his mouth, but true to his word, the work spoke for him. Ricky walked around the Cadillac inspecting every inch, oohing and awing at every curve. He pulled out his silver money clip and extracted a crisp ten dollar bill. Henri reached, then snapped the paper and shoved it in his pocket. "For my momma," he said with pride.

Ricky looked at me. I smiled. "You hungry, Henri?"

"I be big hungry," he said, grinning.

We walked a couple of blocks down to the McDonalds's on the corner. I hadn't eaten at any of the fast food places in ages, but suddenly a Big Mac and fries was sounding pretty damned good. Ricky was proving a master of conversation. The kid's last name was Toussaint. Ms. Toussaint managed a t-shirt shop just off the beach. Hadn't seen his dad since they left Haiti. His shirt was two sizes too big and his shorts had tiny holes in them, maybe from too many washings. But his close cropped hair was clean and he carried the scent of soap. When we went into the hamburger joint, the first thing he did was wash his hands. He came out of the bathroom with a laugh and a smile that decorated every booth.

I'm usually awfully damned jaded about street kids. They get trapped. Too many absent fathers. Too many mothers who are too busy or just too damned fucked up to care about the kids they've brought into this world. They end up in the system. Courts, welfare, petty crime, gangs. They're filled to the brim with pure, unadulterated anger that often turns into violent rage directed at every person and every institution that crosses their paths. We all pay, but the children are ones who suffer the most. No future, no hope, and a lot of them become human detritus.

This kid was different. I studied him as we ate. His golden brown eyes flashed within his blue- black skin, but there was nothing malevolent or deceitful in them. He had high cheekbones and full lips. His ten year old body was already that of a little man. I guessed he would become quite handsome as he matured. He talked between bites.

"My momma manage souvenir shop a couple of blocks off de beach. She work hard. I work hard. I make her proud. I not my brother," he said.

"What about your brother?" I asked.

"He older. My momma say no talk about him. I do what Momma say. We don' want no trouble with Big Ju Ju." He shook his head and attacked the second quarter pounder.

Ricky and I looked at each other. Big Ju Ju? Henri pronounced it with the French accent on the J's. So who was this guy and why was he trouble? I was curious, but what the hell . . . it was supposed to be a pleasant lunch, not an interrogation.

In the meantime, the kid was all "please and thank you" mixed in with love and respect for a mother who obviously cared and was willing to do something about it. It lifted me, and sometimes I need that desperately. Ricky was obviously overwhelmed. He sucked up the food -- and Henri -- like a man who hadn't had a meal this satisfying in eons. When we were finished, Henri hugged Ricky. Then the little cavalier took my hand like an aspiring Sir Walter Raleigh, and kissed it gently. How the hell can you resist that? We told him to come back. There would be more work, and more hamburgers.
Chapter 2

Ricky and I sauntered back up to the office. The sky was a sweet loving blue. The birds were singing their own song of joy and the sun was shining in our own special universe. Why not? We were madly in love.

No, no. Hold it . . . you got it all wrong. Not that. Not with each other . . . Okay . . . Ricky first.

He came into the office a few weeks back looking beat and gray. With that great Cuban skin, Ricky doesn't get circles under his eyes, but this time he had craters. I figured it was another long one-nighter for Mr. Latin Dynamite. Beautiful ladies with boundless energy . . . just the type he likes. He comes in like that occasionally, but his recovery time is short and quite remarkable. It was different this time. The next morning, same look. Then it hit me. He wasn't just tired. It was more like moon struck. He was quiet and he spent what seemed like hours staring out the window and smiling to himself. When I asked him about lunch, he simply said, "I have plans." I knew it might be too soon, but it looked like the hook was digging in deep.

When I met her, I knew why. If he was Latin Dynamite, she was an easy match, a Cuban Dream. Her face was the model for a combination of Beyonce and Penelope Cruz. The skin shown like polished bronze. Her raven hair swung about her head like black silk. And the body . . . Way Beyond Wow. At first, I figured -- oh my God -- another one of Ricky's air-headed bimbos.

Well, this bimbo was a CPA, a senior partner in the firm and the co-author of three textbooks on personal tax filing that were in use at FSU, UF, UCF, and all of the other major universities in Florida. She had a penthouse on Atlantic Ave. and skirted around town in a new Mercedes E-Class Cabriolet . . . red with a black convertible top, no less. Still, none of that meant I had to like her. Ricky decided we all had to have dinner together . . . on him. My first reaction was "yuck," Then I thought, "such a deal on the food," but I still wasn't sure about the company.

He insisted on Casablanca, a newer place on Alhambra, close to the beach. Expensive and elegant. The maître d' was all decked out in a black silk jacket and matching bow tie, the whole shebang. As we walked to our table in the back, a quiet fell over the dining room. I gotta tell you that I've had my share of oglers in my day. When I wear that short red dress with the plunging neckline and black stilettos, I can shake my silky blond curls and the guys will choke on their gazpacho. But tonight they weren't even giving me a second look. All eyes were glued on one Evelyn Santiago. She wore a black cocktail dress; sexy, but elegant, with a stand of natural pearls gleaming casually at her neck. Her glossy black hair looked like an ad for shampoo from the pages of VOGUE. She moved like a female panther, silent and measured, but with unimpeachable grace and dignity. A couple of the guys had to wipe the drool off their chins.

We were seated. Ricky ordered a bottle of Dom Pernignon like he owned the place. I almost choked. She placed her hand gently on my arm and smiled. She squeezed warmly and spoke.

"Ricky has told me so much about you. You sound like a clone between Wonderwoman and Grace Kelly. I'm not sure I can compete."

It should have sounded like catty bullshit, but her girlish laugh and warm smile gave it a serious authenticity that hung in the air. We talked while Ricky mostly just listened. It was normal girl stuff, but no name dropping or one-upmanship. It just flowed like a peaceful river deep in the woods. We also laughed a lot while Ricky beamed and nodded.

I felt like a first class ass. I had no choice. I had to like her. She was absolutely delightful, charming, funny, unpretentious. Her smile and her laugh simply nestled into you and slowly set you on fire. We had snifters of cognac after dinner. The whole evening just continued to get better. I decided it might be appropriate to take a cab to the boat in case the love birds wanted to nest in the darkness.

Now I guess you're wondering about me and my Sterling. I know. It makes me want to puke, too. But that's his name, Sterling Major. It's hard for me to get it out of my mouth, so I just call him S most of the time. Anyway . . . more about him later.
Chapter 3

Back to the office the next morning and more boring cases. Florida Congressman X had had a close encounter with a young man under age in a bathroom at a park near the beach. Ricky and I were in charge of damage control. Ms. Z suspected her husband, the noted Fort Lauderdale developer, was conducting liaisons with a lady of questionable virtue. We were investigating, ever so discreetly. The most interesting case – and that, in itself, is a stretch – involved embezzlement by a partner in one of a chain of high profile car dealerships in South Florida. And by the way . . . he just happened to be one of the more generous contributors to Rod's campaign for senator. Hey . . . mostly bullshit, but all in a day's work and the checks were coming in regularly.

I watched over the next few weeks as Ricky acted more and more like a lovesick bull. Evelyn had simply blown him away. It was actually quite endearing. My Cuban Adonis, a hall of fame lady killer, in the deep quicksand of passion . . . and with only one woman this time. She had been by the office a couple of times and from the glow, she was in right alongside him. I was expecting Don Juan to be shelling out for a diamond if this went on much longer.

In the meantime, Henri had caught us several times. P.T Barnum said, "Never give a sucker an even break." And we wuz them. The kid was simply a whiz. He was very bright and his affection and respect for his mother just made you want to hug him until his golden eyes popped. He always did a beautiful number on Ricky's Caddy and he always ate two Quarter Pounders, large fries and slurped down a monster Coke at lunch.

I was dying to meet his mother. I wanted to tell her she was raising the first Haitian president of the U.S. I decided the next time he showed up, I would get the address of the souvenir shop she managed.

Sure enough, when Friday came, so did Henri. We waved at him as we approached. As we got closer, his smile seemed a bit off kilter.

"Is Henri limping?" Ricky asked.

He was. There was cut just above his eye and the blood had hardened to create a nasty welt. There were scabs on his elbows and knees and his lower lip was visibly swollen.

"Henri, did you fall off your bike?"

He looked down at the pavement and shook his head slowly. I thought for a moment the tears would escape, but he rolled his shoulders and gritted his teeth. Ricky bent down and gently placed his hand under the boy's chin. He looked into Henri's eyes. The wounds were even worse up close.

"So what is it, Henri? You been fighting?"

"Yes, Sir. I mean sort of . . ."

"Come on Henri. This is Ricky. You, me, Dee. We're compadres. You can trust me. What do you mean 'sort of . . . ?"

Henri took a moment to decide, then he looked at Ricky and spoke,"Dey jump me. De Ju Ju D's.

"And who are these guys?"

"Dey run with Big Ju Ju. Call him Bijet for short. He tell them what to do. Dey want me join dem. I be a member of de gang. I do what dey say. I tol' dem no. Dat's what happen to my brother. Momma say no more. Her heart cannot be broken again. She love me. I love her. I no see her hurt like de las time."

"Okay, Henri. Forget the car today. Dee and I are awfully hungry. I think we all ought to go eat. You can talk if you want to, but if not we'll just scarf up some burgers. What do you say?"

"I love you, Ricky. You like my papa. You too, Dee. I eat wid you."

I wasn't sure whether Ricky was going to dance or cry. He put his arm around the kid and squeezed. The kid squeezed back. Hell, even Diabla, the scar worn she-devil, was getting a little misty.

Henri didn't say much at lunch, but I did get the address of the shop his mom managed. It was on Seabreeze, a block or so off of the beach. No more waiting. Now I was definitely going to pay a friendly little visit. Ricky and I talked after lunch. He doesn't get mad very often , but this time he was seriously pissed off. In his mind and his heart, he had adopted the dark little waif. Say what you want, but the kid had character and was already developing a deep sense of honor. Unfortunately those two commodities are getting all too rare as technology and general nastiness devour us all.

Ricky wanted to go to see Henri's Mom with me, but I pulled the female card on him. I honestly thought she might be intimidated by two of us. He wasn't too rational right now and that was a little scary. I'd seen him blowup before and I didn't want to see it again if I had the choice.

"Come on, Ricky. Admit that Ms. Toussaint will probably be more forthcoming with another woman. Besides, you get kind of crazy when you're pissed, which you definitely are. And you don't always control it very well."

His gave me a whole body scowl, but reluctantly agreed. I promised I would report in as soon as I had talked to her. It was only 2:15, and I thought I might be able to catch her in the lull after lunch. Ricky went back to the office to shuffle papers and cover the phones. I piled into my old Focus and made for the beach.
Chapter 4

The shop was easy enough to spot. Red, green and black in huge swaths across the front with RASTA LUV painted in huge letters above the door. I parked and crossed the street. I could see her from the open door, straightening piles of t-shirts and positioning objects on the counters like a mother hen. She was a little startled when I walked in. I'm damned sure not a teenager and I don't think I'd remind you much of a Rastafarian, either.

She was small and pert, her hair cut in a close afro. She wore a gleaming white starched t-shirt emblazoned with RASTA LUV in bold letters. Underneath it was a phrase that read "de best dere is." The slacks were black denim, and on her small feet, a pair of matching Crocs. Her lipstick, nails, and toes were done up in in a raspberry red.

I quickly surveyed the shop. A varied collection of the stuff you'd see in any beach setting, although there was a noticeable lack of shirts with the crude sayings that some of the kids are so fond of. I knew she was Haitian, but the music and the motif had a definite Bob Marley vibe. She came over and smiled warmly.

Oh boy, a chance to try out my high school French.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Comment ca va?"

She grinned like a satisfied tabby cat.

"Ah, si vous parlez la Francaise?"

"Je suis tres desole. Ma Francaise is tres mal. Je parle une petite." I held up my hand and squeezed my fingers together to indicate my obvious inadequacy. Nevertheless, the corners of her mouth went up and she laughed almost girlishly. Her eyes told me where Henri had gotten that golden glow.

"Then it is English. May I help you?" she asked. Her pronunciation and inflection were perfect. She stopped and stared for a moment. I could see her forming the recognition. "Wait. I know who you are. You are Dee, and Ricky is your partner. You have been very kind to my Henri. He speaks of you both constantly. I am grateful." Her English was flawless, but the hint of musical patois they speak in Haiti lay in every word.

"Henri is a wonderful kid. You've done quite a job of raising him."

"Thank you. It is often difficult. I work many hours and his father is absent."

"Ms. Toussaint . . ."

She interrupted, "Please call me Grace." I nodded and bowed slightly.

"Grace. Ricky and I are concerned about Henri. We saw the results of the beating he took. Ju Ju D's. That's what he said. He also referred to a man they call Bijet. Can you tell me a bit more?"

Her eyes darted around the shop and into the street. It seemed empty.

"I am sorry," she said, "they are always watching."

"Who?"

"Ms. Rabow, this is not your business. I do not wish to be rude, but there are many things you do not know. I appreciate your concern, but your involvement is not needed, nor is it prudent. I must keep my boy safe."

"I understand your love for Henri. What you must understand is that the boy's safety is our foremost concern. We don't wish to interfere, but there may be something we can do. Without more information, we are helpless. Please . . . if there is anything you can provide us, we may be able to protect him."

Her eyes shot around the area once more. She briefly placed her hand to her chest and inhaled deeply. She looked me over again, testing me quietly in her mind.

"I will talk to you, but not here. L'ENFANT DULCE. It is a restaurant owned by my cousin. We will be secure. I can meet you there at 9:30 tomorrow evening."

"I would like to meet with you and I would like to bring Ricky. He loves your boy as he would a little brother, even perhaps a son." She quickly raised one dark finger, put it to her lips, and nodded.

"Buy a shirt in case they are here. Then you must leave."

I picked out a sky blue shirt, extra large, with the store logo and paid for it in cash. The sun hammered into the window of the Focus. The sweat formed on my forehead in an instant. I didn't know a damned thing, but at least we had an avenue that might lead us to something useful.

I went back by the office, but Ricky wasn't there. I checked the messages, nothing. I hadn't seen my old pal Bugsy in a few days. A cocktail just might be appropriate before the hot date that awaited me this evening.

I parked the dusty Focus in the lot and went into the bar. It was pretty quiet, a few locals at tables in the back laughing and talking about the latest Dolphins' game fiasco. Some were arguing that a playoff was in the offing, while others insisted that Tannehill would never be able to step up. Everyone wanted another Marino, but I didn't think that was likely. I took a stool at the end of the bar and nodded at Bugsy. He limped over with a double of Evan Williams and a water chaser.

"I been missin' you, Dee. You gettin' too classy for old Bugsy?"

"That's not going to happen."

In another life, Bugsy had been deeply involved with some of the royalty of Fort Lauderdale mobsters. I had met him when he was a pimp with a string of girls that actually respected him. He had been more like a Daddy . . . using them, yes . . . but protecting them from the bad dope and the legion of creeps that enjoyed their services. The bar was his retirement, hastened by a close encounter with a baseball bat after one of the big boys demanded a takeover.

"So Bugsy, can I ask a couple of questions?"

"Sure, Dee . . . but only if I don't have to answer them."

"Ju Ju D's. Ring any bells?"

The color instantly drained from his face. He leaned over the bar and scanned the tables. His voice was almost a whisper.

"Gang. Badass motherfuckers. Extremely violent. Got their filthy mitts in half the shit operations in the city. Drugs, guns, prostitution, all kinds of petty crimes. Heavy into the War Tax. You don't want to know any more. Don't want to fuck with them, Dee. It's very unhealthy."

"So what is this War Tax?"

"It's like fire insurance. You make the payments, you don't get no fire. No payment . . . well, baby, that's an accident waitin' to happen."

"So it's a protection racket? You pay it?"

"You didn't hear me say that."

"What about some character they call Big Ju Ju or Bijet?"

"Yeah, Dee. He's the real thing. Very scary cat. The toughs all answer to him. They're freaked. Think he has some powerful mojo. Like some Voodoo character. He kiss you, you die."

A young couple walked in the door and sat at the bar. Bugsy gave me a "that's enough" stare and hobbled toward them.

I nursed the Evan Williams, mixing it with sips of the cool, clean water. There was too much going on and besides, I had a date with my dreamboat. He was picking me up early. "Get gorgeous, but pack an overnight bag, strictly casual. You'll be back by noon," he told me.
Chapter 5

I finished my Evan and made for the boat. I wanted plenty of time to get beautiful . . . and sexy. I pulled out that red dress I told you about. I could still fill it out nicely. Very hot shower. Lots of stuff that smelled real girly. I might have gone a bit overboard with the makeup, but hey, it was to be a super classy evening. I slipped on the stilettos and checked myself in the mirror. If he didn't like this package, he had gone over to the dark side and, based on our last midnight encounter, I didn't think that was likely.

At 4:30, I heard a knock on the hull. He stood on the dock in all of his macho splendor; beige silk slacks, a stunning white polo and a black linen sport coat, $700 alligators on his feet. His thick blond locks dropped casually over one ice blue eye. Every inch of his muscular 6" 4' frame dazzled in its own special way.

"Come on. We have to hurry to catch the plane. And by the way, you look absolutely spectacular."

I handed him my overnight and padded off GREAT GESTURE barefoot. I slipped on the stilettoes at the end of the dock. He held the door to the Jag for me and we were off.

"So what's this airport stuff."

"Just be patient. It's a surprise. Dinner with a couple of clients, but plenty of time for other types of recreation." I hoped I knew what kind of recreation he was talking about.

It was a small Cessna. We were in the air in minutes and in less than an hour, we landed at the Marsh Harbor airport on Great Abaco. A black Jeep was waiting for us on the runway. We had a quick visit with a burly customs agent. Then the driver whisked us over to Harbour View Marina where we boarded RUMDUM, the Hinckley jet boat they use as a taxi. The captain raced us over the flat water to Baker's Bay. I'd heard about the place, but I'd never been there. Exclusive resort on Great Guana Cay. It faces the Atlantic Ocean to the east and the Sea of Abaco to the west. The only way to get there is by boat. Lots for six mil, and that doesn't include the requisite mansion. Lots of European investors and celebrities who treasure their privacy. Just the place for a disreputable private eye with a decidedly shady past. Oh yeah . . . that would be me.

A uniformed dockhand in starched whites gathered the lines and the small cases of luggage. S handed him a twenty. He gave my gallant escort a robust smile and a sincere "thank you."

The restaurant was quiet and elegant, ivory linen tablecloths and waiters in burgundy waistcoats with towels draped over their arms. Our table overlooked the crystal Bahamian depths. The sun was low in the western sky and the blue green was flecked with ripples of diamonds and gold.

Sterling ordered a couple of bottles of some ridiculously expensive champagne I'd never heard of. Our server had barely poured us a glass when two enormous men approached our table. As they came closer, I recognized 'Big Trip' Jones and Davon 'the Skyhawk' Alton, two of the cogs in that last Miami Heat Championship. Sterling never talked much about his business. I knew he was a sports agent, but I didn't know he had clients like this.

Training camp was about to begin. They discussed the prospects for another trip to the NBA finals and the two giants kidded each other. They'd been rivals in college at Duke and North Carolina. It was all too cool. These guys obviously liked each other and definitely trusted Sterling. The champagne went down all too easy. I was getting a little woozy when they got up to catch the jet boat back to Harbor View.

Sterling signed the check, then cradled my hand and smiled. A driver in a golf cart took us to a private condominium. It was decked out in Bahamian chic with a deck overlooking the quiet Atlantic. We talked for a couple of hours, mostly about nothing. A gentle touch here and there, but nothing too heavy.

I can't tell you what happened next in a family publication, only that it was rated triple X. When it was over, there was no part of my being that hadn't been explored by his tongue. He could say the same for me. But this was only part of why I was in love. It was quiet, but intense . . . and it was real. I was hooked. I believed he was, too . . . and I didn't see any way it would change any time soon.

The next morning came way too quickly. We showered together and had a final meeting of minds, spirits, and bodies. Then it was back to the airport and ultimately, the grind. S kept his word. We were back at noon. I went to the boat and changed into a pair of navy slacks and a willowy white top with a blue blazer. It was time for business and mine was protecting a boy with a mother who adored him and no father to nurture him and teach him to be a man.
Chapter 6

Ricky was on the phone when I came in. He waved disgustedly and went on talking. Ms. K suspected her husband had been hiding funds in off shore accounts so that their divorce settlement wouldn't bankrupt him. She was sure he was going to marry that damned stripper as soon as their divorce was final. And what about her poor children? I figured each of them would have seven figures in their trust accounts when they turned 21. Let me just say, it didn't make me weep. Still, she was our client and business is business.

When he hung up, he feigned putting his finger down his throat and gave me a phony gag.

"So what's up?"

I told him about my visit with Ms. Toussaint, the Ju Ju D's and Bijet, the additional insight I received from Bugsy. He listened quietly, but I watched his hand slowly became a fist. He slammed it down on the desk. His jaws locked and the pearly white teeth settled in a threatening grimace.

"Those bastards want to fuck with Henri, they're gonna have to fuck with me. He's our kid. In some ways they all are. We can't let him drown. Maybe we can hold on to this one."

We agreed that Ricky would pick me up at nine so we could make our date with Grace at L'ENFANT DULCE.

The street was dark and dirty. We found a parking place just across from the place. The streetlight was burning, but I wondered if the Caddy would be the same when we came out. We walked into a warm glow. A few patrons turned to look as we came in and there was a slight murmur. Instantly, I recognized that we were the only "white" faces in the restaurant. A coal black man in a tan embroidered gyuayabera warmly at us and bowed at the waist

"She wait for you in de back." He led us to an alcove with a round table covered in butcher paper. Grace sat, dressed in much the same attire I had seen the day before. She smiled and held her hand out to Ricky. "Thank you," she said with a bit of pride and a healthy dose of gratitude.

Ricky and I both ordered a glass of the house version of Sangria. It was thick with fruit and sumptuous. L'ENFANT DULCE was immaculately clean. The wait staff was decked out in matching t-shirts and jeans. The silverware gleamed and the glasses were clear and spotless. Everyone hustled from one place to another. It was an efficient operation and the smells coming out of the kitchen made promises I hoped they would be able to keep.

Ricky spoke first. His tone was formal, but firm, and tinged with a bit of old fashioned love.

"It is an honor to meet the mother of such a fine young man."

She lowered her head in a decidedly courtesan nod. "He is my boy."

"So he is. I don't want to be presumptuous, but he has become our boy as well. It grieves me to see him hurt and threatened. I know you are doing everything you can to help him become a man, but there comes a point where you must consider assistance. We care for Henri. We cannot stand by and have him bullied or led into a life that will ultimately destroy him."

She was silent. I could feel her weighing our commitment, trying to decide if she could really trust us. She focused first on the eyes of Ricky, then panned to mine. After a long pause, she pursed her lips and spoke.

"I see good things in you. You want my boy to prosper. I will trust you. I have lost one son. I cannot lose another." It was my turn to speak.

"Thank you, Grace. I know it is painful, but I must ask what happened to Henri's brother."

"Jacques was a good boy. Ten years older than Henri. Seventeen when he passed. Henri adored him, followed him like a little black puppy. At twelve, Jacques began to bring boys to the apartment. They scared me. They were loud, often crude and they had things and wore things that honest people in our neighborhood could not afford. When I questioned Jacques of this, he grew silent. He came in one day with an IPhone. I had not bought it for him. He claimed he had found it in a park. I always taught my boys to be truthful with their mother. He was not. Then I began to hear talk of the Ju Ju Disciples."

"Exactly who are these Ju Ju Disciples?" Ricky asked.

"They started as just a bunch of boys who sat on the stoops in the neighborhood, laughing and making rough jokes. But one among them began to rise. Bijet, a nickname for Big Ju Ju. It is said that his grandmother was a witch. That she taught him of the black arts. He wears this crazy makeup and a silk top hat. He has frightened many and gained power. More have joined. Soon there was stealing . . . little things at first, a bicycle, a CD, some minor shoplifting. But it grew. Then came the guns, the drugs and the women who sell themselves. There was some violence. Soon we all began to fear them. One dark day, I had to admit that my son was one of them."

"Did anyone go to the police?"

"An older lady, Claire. I knew her for years. She worked as a hospital aide. A very fine woman, wise and highly respected throughout our community. She decided she must speak. They found her body a week later. She had died in her bed, ravaged by the Mondatti. The Kiss of Death."

Ricky looked at her quizzically. "So the gang? She was not assaulted? This Mondatti killed her? How does it work?"

"You cross Bijet. He does not beat you, nor shoot you. He does not stab you with the knife. He places his lips on yours and your body and soul are invaded by something much older and much more horrible. It is slow, and painful. Your loved ones can only watch and wait for you to die. Once the Mondatti is within you, there is no need of a doctor . . . only an undertaker."

I wanted to be respectful, but the story sounded too much like one of those bad horror movies I grew up on. I remembered John Carradine and Boris Karloff in the thirties horror movie "The House of Frankenstein." When they were around there was always Black Magic, mysterious disappearances and unscheduled deaths. I couldn't get enough of them. Maybe that's why I became a detective, not to mention a bit of a weirdo.

"So what happened to Jacques?" Ricky asked.

"The Ju Ju D's tell me I must pay the War Tax. Jacques says no. He is one of them, but still he protects his mother. The good in him was not completely gone. Bijet ordered him to obey. When he didn't, he received the Kiss. I watched him while the fever rose, held his hand as he vomited the blood and moaned like a dog on the side of the highway. His skin was very dark, but a sickly yellow appeared from beneath the surface. The yellow faded and was consumed by a gray like the color of soft clay. I tried everything. I prayed. I begged. I called the doctor. I even paid the Tax, but the Mondatti had its way. In the end, I cried. Henri saw it all."

Now she wept again.

We hadn't even ordered yet, but it was time to go. The last image was of her cousin sitting with his arm around Grace, patting her back like a child and whispering softly into her ear.
Chapter 7

I found a piece of two-day old pizza in the fridge next to some wilted lettuce. What the hell? It looked like dinner to me. I poured a glass of Cabernet and pulled out "old trusty", my dog-eared spiral notebook. No "Orange is the New Black" tonight.

I made notes in a hasty scrawl. I had to meet this Bijet, or at least see what he looked like. We had to protect Henri, no matter the time or cost. Grace was right. She couldn't lose another son. This "Kiss of Death" puzzled me. Was the Mondatti a real disease or was it some sort of curse, a psychological doll with pins stuck in it? I Googled it, but it didn't exist as far as the internet was concerned. So far we only knew what Bugsy had said and Grace's tale of Jacques' rebellion and suffering. Two things were certain. The teenage boy was dead and the next victim might be his baby brother.

The next morning I decided to contact Dr. Paul Galliano. He was a friend of my Dad from the old Lake Norman days, a retired medical examiner now on the faculty at FAU in Boca Raton. His knowledge of pathology and current diseases that lay outside the norm was esoteric and legendary. We often consulted him when I was with the Fort Lauderdale PD. He was the "go to guy" when our experts were simply baffled. I phoned Captain Sullivan and he gave me the doc's private number.

I called the good physician and asked if Ricky and I could come by his office on campus. He remembered me and put us down for a 3:30 appointment. We arrived about thirty minutes early and parked in the visitors' lot.

We saw some kids playing Frisbee on the lawn. They were taunting each other playfully and flipping the disc like a red flying saucer. A couple of fresh, beautiful young girls sat on a blanket with their books propped open. They giggled and talked much more than they studied. I am always a bit awestruck by a college campus. There is a sense of peace and order that just doesn't match the world outside its borders. The kids exist in an enclave that is safe, a place they can grow, and hopefully prosper, without the taint, and sometimes the horror of reality. It always creates a longing in me. Unfortunately, my flirtations with innocence are MIA. That is definitely missing in action.

Dr. Galliano's office was on the third floor of a stately brick building that I'm sure the alumni were still paying for. His door was closed, but when Ricky knocked, a quiet "Do come in" followed. The room was small, but warm. The left wall was all book shelves, the spines displaying the titles. I noticed everything was in alphabetical order by author. It wasn't exactly your New York Times best seller list. THE DOCTOR AS A MECHANIC, EPIDEMICS OF THE 19TH CENTURY and IDENTIFYING DISEASES THROUGH SIMPLE OBSERVATION. There were hundreds of them, nothing you'd choose for a lazy afternoon at the beach. But that was why we were here.

He looked very much the professor, thinning gray hair, a bit longer at the temples. He had a pair of reading glasses hanging from his neck, draped over the lapels of a brown corduroy coat with patches at the elbows. No tie. His blue shirt was open at the neck and slightly wrinkled. A bit of academic paunch was wedged against the desk. It was almost a little too much uniform, but it seemed to go quite well with the décor. There was a sort of ragged kindness in his face and his blue eyes held a hint of gold dust.

"Detective Rabow, welcome. I remember you well and your partner Mr. Fuenes. I hope your current endeavors are proving fruitful. Please, sit down." His voice was soothing like an ancient river.

"Thank you, Dr. Galliano. We don't want to take too much of your time, but we are trying to save the life of a boy."

He put his hands together, forming a spindly steeple which rested on his lips. "Tell me," he said quietly.

I left out some of the details that might be incriminating, but focused on the disease, if that's what it was.

"So are you familiar with this Mondatti?"

"African diseases go by many names. Folklore, magic, psychological phenomena, and legitimate viral infections are closely intertwined. The Shaman, or Witch Doctor, if you will, is powerful in many unsophisticated societies. Certainly, if one believes he is ill, he is quite correct. Man often has the power within him to live or to die. It is a function of his will, and sometimes his superstitions."

"According to his mother, Jacques was undoubtedly ill. But the sickness couldn't be identified, only the vaguest of symptoms, no treatment, no origin except this so-called "Kiss of Death."

He leaned back in his chair and swiveled to the window. I could still see the Frisbee flying back and forth between the energetic students. No words from him. I thought for a moment that the interview had concluded. Then the base of the chair squeaked as he swiveled back toward us.

"Of course, I can only speculate without tests and examinations that the circumstances prevent me from performing. But your tale has a certain currency to it. I am sure you are familiar with the outbreak of Ebola that has afflicted countries on the African continent. It is quite serious, perhaps more so than we in North America can fathom at this time. The disease is passed from host to victim through the exchange of bodily fluids. This can happen through open wounds, through sex, even through something that may seem as harmless as a kiss. Many have died, some even in this country. To date, there have been no carriers of this disease who, having transmitted it, escape its deadly conclusion. It is possible that you have found one."

At first, it didn't quite register. I quickly ran the facts through my mind, still hesitating. I wasn't sure any of it made sense, but this was not a time to dismiss any possibilities. The scenario had a certain ring of credibility that I couldn't deny and this man was the expert. I looked at Ricky. He was still digesting the things we knew, and things we might suspect.

"Thank you, Doctor. You have been very generous with your time."

"It is certainly my pleasure. If you come into any hard information, I would appreciate the opportunity to investigate this matter further."

He rose and shook my hand, then Ricky's. We caught the elevator down, with little knowledge of what we did -- or didn't -- have.

I'm not sure why. Maybe the uncertainty was hammering me, but I was exhausted, and the idea of Henri in real danger gnawed at me. Ricky was meeting Evelyn for drinks and dinner. Actually, I was glad I wasn't invited. I went back to Cooley's and slinked into the v berth. Sleep came quickly. I didn't dream.
Chapter 8

We spent the morning at the office sorting through bullshit that we had to pretend was important. And I guess it was . . . at least to our landlord and our clients. The fine young lad our Congressman X had seduced in the men's room at the park had decided his memory would probably fade when the check had cleared the bank. It was clearly blackmail and I wondered if our Honorable had been set up. Ricky advised a visit with the police, but X figured that was a bad career move. "Just fix it." That had been his wise instruction. What the hell? We could do it.

Ms. Z was totally confident the she had her "no-good, rotten, dick waving, sonovabitch husband" by the balls. She probably did. If I were him, I'd be booking a red-eye flight to Venezuela. Anyway, it was your typical charming and rewarding morning for a couple of low-life gumshoes.

Things brightened up considerably around eleven. I heard the door creak and Evelyn came prancing in, looking like the dark haired answer to Faye Dunaway in "The Thomas Crown Affair." Come to think of it, Ricky wouldn't make a bad Cuban version of Steve McQueen. She shot me a radiant smile and shook her head.

"Even numbers crunchers have to eat. Today it's Mexican. Come on, Dee. You'll love it."

Hey, that was an offer a starving PI couldn't refuse.

We got to the cantina early. There weren't many people, yet. I debated a little libation, but it wasn't much of a debate. Even a poor girl needs to reward herself sometimes.

"Large Margarita, Cuervo Gold, with salt, por favor."

Ricky and Evelyn went for the iced tea. How boring.

I watched them while I inhaled half a bowl of homemade chips, complete with two types of salsa, roja and verde. I wanted to be fair, so I alternated. The Margarita was the perfect combination of sweet and tangy, a nice thick slice of lime, and the boys in the back were damned generous with the Cuervo. In the meanwhile, Ricky and Evelyn offered the classic description of head over heels in love. They cooed, they pawed, they grinned, they swayed, and laughed at little inside jokes. It was like a bad romance novel, but it got me. They really were simply beautiful together. It wasn't until the food arrived that they got their hands off each other and we settled into serious business. Finally, the conversation got interesting.

Evelyn already knew about the thing with Henri. No problem. If Ricky trusted her, I had to. Besides, she had a mind like a razor and her heart was just where it ought to be. I filled in a few gaps that Ricky had left hanging. I could hear the wheels grinding. Her face darkened a bit and her words were analytical and direct. Her voice carried a depth of conviction I had to respect.

"So this Bijet is a kind of ghost, albeit a very powerful one. Your Dr. Galliano makes some interesting observations. Big Ju Ju is not to be underestimated, first because of the devotion of his followers and secondly because he is in possession of something that may be very dangerous and very real. Caution must be a by-word. Nevertheless, this ghost must have a face, one that we recognize and one that can warn us. We must know when he is near and when the tendrils of the terror he inspires reach for us."

Respectful is a term I seldom use when referring to Ricky. He would have made a great modern Henry David Thoreau. Rage against the establishment and all that noble shit, but he doted on Evelyn's every phrase. So did I. She simply made sense. I don't know why I was surprised, but I decided there was probably much more I didn't know about her.

"Okay," I said, "I'll check with Bugsy. See when the Ju Ju D's come by to collect the War Tax. If we're lucky, Bijet will be in attendance. At least I can get a look at him. Give the enemy a face that might provide us with some focus."

Ricky spoke up, "I think it's something we gotta do."

"Yeah, well forget the 'we' shit, Kimosabe."

"Sorry, Dee, I'm going."

"Bad idea, Ricky. One harmless chick, no problem. A macho dude with your attitude will definitely attract attention. This has become too personal for you. Bad equation."

"I love you, Dee. That's why I can tell you to go fuck yourself. I'm on it. Get used to it."

Evelyn was silent. The woman was obviously smart enough to know when to shut up. Another point in her favor.

Ricky and Evelyn had some errands to run after lunch. To be honest, I figured it was an "afternoon delight." But hey, none of my business. If anything, I was a bit envious. I went back to the office. The phone was ringing when I closed the door.

"Dee. It is Grace. I had to call. A boy is dead." I froze and braced myself. A series of grisly images flashed through my mind like strobes. Then I spit out the question and held a short breath.

"What boy? Not Henri?"

"No. His name was Martin, a friend of my son. They were in school together, a good boy like my Henri. No harm in him. Great love for his mother. Fine lady, works at the nursing homes. Jacques used to take Henri and Martin to the park, later to see baseball when there was money. She is like me. She knew that any truck with the Ju Ju D's was a path to destruction. They wanted him to join, become a runner. They like the young ones that they can manipulate and control. Martin knew the Kiss, the hellish thing that Bijet had implanted in Jacques. He told them no."

Her voice was unsteady, punctuated with trembling sighs and short bursts of tears.

"Slow down, Grace. I need to know the rest of the story."

I could feel her gathering herself even over the phone.

"Yes, of course," she said haltingly. "A couple of weeks ago, the Ju Ju's beat him first, like they did my Henri. Still he refused. A neighbor found him in an alley this morning. They had cut him many times and apparently left him to bleed to death. They left their mark on his forehead so the rest of us would know and fear their cunning . . . their unspeakable violence. Henri may be next. Please . . ."

"Grace, I promised you Ricky and I would protect Henri. We will honor that promise. Bijet will be stopped. Your boy will be safe. Pack some things for him. I will pick him up at your place in an hour."

"I will do as you say. Bless you," she whispered.

I called Ricky immediately. His heavy breathing and the rustling of sheets confirmed my "afternoon delight" theory.

"Jesus, Dee. I'm busy. What the hell do you want?"

"Sorry, Ricky . . . to you . . . and to Evelyn. I'm sure you were conferring on the status of the world's economic downturn."

"Okay, smartass. This better be good."

When I told him about Grace's call, he got quiet. It was ominous even over the phone.

"I'm picking up Henri," he insisted, "you continue to beat the bushes. Let's find this damned Bijet and his thugs before we have to bury another kid. Get hold of Bugsy and call me immediately."
Chapter 9

It was about 4:00 and I figured I could catch Bugsy on the phone before the regulars started shuffling in.

"Bugsy, it's Dee."

"Oh my God. You don't never call me unless you want something. What is it this time?"

"You know you love me, Bugsy, and I do need a favor. I want to know when the Ju Ju's usually come by to pick up the War Tax."

"Holy shit, Dee, as if I didn't have enough trouble. Whattaya' got in mind, a shootout in my humble establishment? Listen good Honey, then you can forget it."

"Another kid is dead. They cut him up and left him to bleed out in a filthy alley."

"I'm sorry, Dee, but that's not my problem."

I knew Bugsy too well. It was his problem. For all of the tough talk and his questionable past, he had a soft spot. He doted on his grandchildren and God help anyone who tried to hurt them.

"Bugsy, I promise. Ricky and I will sit in the back, never get out of the booth. I just need to see what they look like. We can't desert these kids and especially Henri, just because we don't want to be bothered."

Bugsy knew about Henri. Ricky and I had both talked about him over drinks at the bar. Whenever we did, tough old Bugsy got real squishy and the sweet things about him were on full display no matter how hard he tried to hide them.

"Okay Dee, you got me and I got your word. You need to keep it if you want to be welcomed at Bugsy's. Around 10:30 tonight."

"I love you, Sweetie."

I heard him huffing as he slammed down the phone. Then I dialed Ricky. He had already picked up Henri and had him locked away at his apartment. "I bought him a pizza," he said, "double cheese and pepperoni. I gave him the remote and he's in heaven on the sofa. I told him not to open the door for anyone. See you at ten at Bugsy's."

I stood before the mirror at about nine. I thought about a hat, thought about my Smith and Wesson, thought about Sterling, but mostly thought about Henri. I wanted him safe, and I damned sure didn't want anything to happen to Grace. He was okay at Ricky's, but he couldn't stay there forever. He had to come out . . . like we all do. When he did, there was a threat. That's what we had to remove.

I threw on a pair of dowdy black sweatpants and the dirtiest, smelliest sweatshirt I could find. I washed all of the makeup off of my face. I picked up an eyebrow pencil and drew some circles under my eyes. Then I smudged it nicely, scrambled my hair. No brush, just ran my fingers through it. One glance in the mirror and I shuddered. Please allow me call it my new bag lady look. I strapped the loaded .38 to my calf and added a switchblade left by one of the perps in my cop days. He had tried to make it a permanent part of my anatomy, but when Ricky placed the cold barrel of his Glock against the guy's neck, he had a quick change of heart. Our boy was now playing "drop the soap" with his pals at Raiford, one of Florida's finest correctional facilities.

I walked into Bugsy's precisely at ten. He stared at me from behind the bar, "Jesus, Dee. You look like you been shot at and missed and shit at and hit."

"Oh, Bugsy, you do go on." I raised my palm in Queen Elizabeth wave and curtsied. He pointed to the back. Ricky was already there. He sat at the back table in a pair of tailored jeans, a Tommy Bahama shirt, and a six-hundred dollar brown bombardier. Hey . . . I know. I was with him at Nordstrom's when he bought it.

"Damned, Dee. You look like "The Wreck of the Hesperus."

"Sorry, Ricky, but that poem was about a storm and a shipwreck."

"Exactly my point," he said and laughed.

I asked about the kid. He was doing fine. Evelyn had insisted on coming over to watch him and the last he'd seen, they were on the sofa stuffing heaping handfuls of Orville Redenbacher down their throats and sucking up Cherry Coke. Hell, I wished I was with them.

The Ju Ju's were early. Two guys about the size of buffaloes pranced in like they owned the place. I guess in a way, they did. Behind them was a smaller man, but not much smaller. He was an easy 6"2' and well over two-hundred. He wore a denim shirt with the sleeves cut out. His arms rippled like a huge black mamba. On one shoulder, I could barely make out a prison tattoo. They do them with ballpoint pens or homemade shivs. Very painful, but very impressive. The right symbol was a savage warning to stay the hell out of the way lest you find yourself permanently disabled, or just plain dead. Gold dripped off his hands and from around his neck.

Bugsy placed three shot glasses of Patron on the bar. Beside them was a white, letter sized envelope. "On the house," he croaked. Buffalo Number One palmed the paper, squeezed it, and nodded. When the third man stepped into the full light of the bar, I caught his face in the mirror. It looked like a bad joke. The skin was painted in white make-up from forehead to chin. His eyes and mouth were encompassed by circles of black greasepaint. The shiny silk hat was perched at a jaunty angle on his head. Either he had missed Halloween or he was doing a bad impression of Baron Samedi, the legendary voodoo demon. He lifted the shot glass, sniffed the Patron and belted it down. The buffaloes followed suit.

"By your favor, perhaps another, Mr. Bugsy," he said. Then he turned and rolled his shoulders. The lord of the manor was inspecting his holdings.

Bugsy nodded, "Sure, Bijet."

The clown placed two sharp elbows on the bar and scanned the landscape like drone fixing on a target. Unfortunately, that target was me. He strutted towards our table. The buffaloes fell in behind him and planted on either side. He offered a courtly bow and tipped his hat like the true gentleman I suspected he wasn't. I could feel Ricky tensing up.

"Why you is looking so sad, lovely lady?" he said sweetly. I looked down and said nothing.

Buffalo Number One scowled and snorted, "Hey . . . Bijet ask you question, you answer."

The clown raised the corners of his mouth in a mock smile. I wanted to keep my trap shut . . . actually gave it my very best effort . . . but, hey, that's why the boys at the station nicknamed me Diabla, the she-devil.

"You joinin' the circus, big man?" I snorted.

He took a menacing step forward and grinned. "Yes," he laughed, "maybe I make you part of my act. You so pretty I may want to kiss you."

Ricky reached inside his coat. I knew the Glock was at his chest. The biggest buffalo beat him to the punch. The shiny barrel of a nine-millimeter was inches from my face.

"You tink twice if you don' wan' de lady head to be big mess," he bleated.

Ricky put both of his hands on the table and said nothing. The grin didn't hide the glare that Bijet fired at me. I waited. He tilted his head and put his fingers to the brim of the silk.

"Well, is nice to meet you. Perhaps next time you do a little makeup, maybe a clean dress. And de hair . . . dat not really your style." He turned back to the bar.

"Bugsy, you shud be careful who come in dis place. Bad clientele attract bad luck."

Bugsy's hands were invisible below the bar. They might be shaking. I knew he kept a sawed off 12 guage for emergencies, but he wouldn't use it unless a situation was desperate. His teeth were locked as he smiled at Bijet and the buffaloes.

"Thanks, guys. Come back anytime."

Bijet gave him a sweep of the hand and a beautifully executed Elizabethan bow. Romeo would have been proud. As soon as they were out of sight, Bugsy came over to our table.

"Damn it, Dee. You promised no trouble. What's with the circus shit?"

"Honestly, Bugsy. I tried. He came at me. You saw what he looked like. I don't think the circus would take him."

"Yeah, very funny. You saw him. Well, laugh it up. I'm tellin' you the man is dangerous. You see the size of those goons? You catch that remark about bad luck? That ain't a black cat crossing your path. We're talkin' mysterious fires, explosions, maybe even bullets. Honest to God, I wish you'd learn to keep your mouth shut . . . at least in here. I got a business to run."

He stormed back behind the bar and started polishing glasses. Ricky left a ten and a twenty on the table and we left. I hoped it would salve Bugsy's wounds . . . at least a little.
Chapter 10

Ricky came into the office about nine. He had taken Henri to school. Evelyn had stayed the night. In addition to the other good shit, the formidable Ms. Santiago had a lot of mother in her. He assured me that they had postponed all extra-curricular activities until the boy was back home. Grace had agreed to let Henri stay with Ricky for a few days, but she wanted him with her as soon as we could assure her it was safe.

There wasn't much conversation. We didn't need any. It was plain and simple. Bijet had to be stopped. Jail would be nice, but other options had to be considered. None of them pleasant for him or for us. And unfortunately, neither of us knew exactly what they were.

Despite the distractions, S was never far from my mind. No Baker's Bay tonight, no five star restaurants, no penthouse. We had decided to do it simple. Two bottles of good Cabernet. A cookout on GREAT GESTURE. Fire up the Magma grill and roast some hot dogs and hamburgers alongside a couple of massive ears of fat yellow corn. Hey, a plebian feast fit for almost young lovers with visions of heavy breathing after dinner. And I sincerely hoped that's where we were headed.

The afternoon dragged. I made a few calls and scribbled in my notebook searching for a response, if not a solution. But we were no closer at the end of the day than we were when we began. Ricky was leaving to pick up Henri from school.

"No pizza tonight," he said on the way out the door, "Ev is cooking some sort of Cuban casserole with pork, rice and something green. I'll lay you ten to one it's a gourmet's delight."

I laughed, "So she can cook, too? Does she make all her own clothes and do all the girls like her?"

I hate to tell on my partner, but he gave me the finger. Then he was gone. I had to admit it. The lady was quite remarkable and Ricky was done. I didn't think you could pry them apart with a crowbar. Very cool.

S stepped on the dock at precisely seven o'clock looking like a Greek god in shorts. His blond hair fell casually over one eye and the spare jaw and high cheekbones looked like they belonged on Mt. Rushmore. The tight tendons in his arms and legs glistened in the evening sun. He cradled a couple of bottles of Hall, a California Cab that I sure can't afford. He stepped onto the deck and put his free arm around my waist. Then his warm mouth swept lightly across my cheek and settled on my lips with just a bit of tongue.

They tell me panting is gauche, so I tried like hell to avoid it. I don't want to admit it even to myself, but my heart raced and I could feel my pulse thumping in my neck. I had often kidded Ricky and Evelyn for acting like teenagers in heat, but this lady, tough as she pretended to be, was hooked.

The hot dogs and ground beef sizzled on the grill. I had lightly buttered the buns and they were browning beautifully. The corn was wrapped in silver foil and the scent was heavenly. We didn't talk about much. It was one of those "how was your day" things. We ate in the cockpit, sipped the Cab, and traded groans of pleasure. After dinner, we went below for a snifter of Crème de Menthe and a more intimate setting. I lit the kerosene lamp. The warm glow of the teak and the cool breeze flowing through the cabin made it all damned near perfect.

"Dee, I've come to know you, at least as much as I can, these last few months. I've seen you calm . . . excited . . . determined. But this time, it's different. There's an edge, even a tinge of fear. You're important to me. It's time to talk . . . to tell me what's going on. What's got you wound up? And can I help?"

I didn't like it. Since my last disastrous attempt at romance, I've made a career of keeping myself in a steel cage . . . protected, invulnerable . . . so nothing and no one could hurt me ever again. But now the bars were broken. I wanted someone on the inside . . . someone I could trust . . . someone I could love . . . and that someone was Sterling. I told him about Grace, Henri, and Bijet. How another boy was dead. How I had been introduced to the clown bastard and his brown legion of killers.

The silence hung in the air like heavy fog. He sipped the thick green liquid, scanned the cabin, then focused his eyes on me. His hand covered mine.

"I have friends," he said. ". . . a measure of influence with people who matter. You don't need to know who they are. I'll make a few calls. Simply trust me. This Bijet and his thugs will no longer threaten you."

Questions flooded my mind, but this was not a time to know, or even to ask.

"Dee," he whispered, "I know you love it here . . . know how much you value your independence. But I won't get in your way. I have a question . . . have you ever thought about moving off the boat? Perhaps a place in town . . . even a penthouse on the beach?"

"Sterling, maybe I'm dreaming, but that sounds like an invitation?"

"It is. Things are clear to me for the first time in a long time. I have come to love you. I want you safe. I want you with me. You don't have to answer now. Just think about it. It is for us."

Speechless is not a word often used to describe Diabla, but the cat had definitely gobbled up my tongue. I pulled him up off the settee and dragged him into the v berth. He didn't resist all that much. We ripped at each other's clothes and went at it like two hormonal kids finally giving in to crazed lust. No need to ask me if I liked it.

When I got up in the morning, he was gone. There was a note on the nav station. "I meant it. Just think about it. S."

My head was swimming. Too much wine, too much sex? Well . . . maybe not that . . . but the wine? No question. After a second cup of very strong coffee, things began to clear. I still had a job to do, even if Sterling said I was safe from Bijet. But how does he pull that off? Who the hell were those so-called "people who matter" he had mentioned? And where did he get the "measure of influence" he had so casually referred to? The whole thing reeked of mystery and it even scared me a bit. I was in deep. Surely I wasn't in love with some would-be mobster or other miscellaneous creep. When the time was right, I'd find out. But I wanted that time to be now.

I slipped on my Topsiders and walked down the dock to the old Catalina 27 that was the home of Elvis and Teeny. I'd met them last year while working on the Abaddon case. Elvis was the shy, skinny Publix bag boy who was also one of the best damned hackers I'd ever seen. Teeny was his own true love and looked like she belonged in a box at Toys'R'Us. I had taken them sailing on GREAT GESTURE and they cooed and tried to kiss each other to death. I was almost surprised when it didn't work.

She was on the deck sunning in a bright blue bikini she must have bought in the children's department at Walmart. The little miss was buried in a book almost as big as she was. The name Sara Paretsky was above the title in bold letters. A V.I. Warshawski book. Female detective, tough, competent, sometimes dangerous. I loved it. V.I. was one of my heroes. I think I read every damned one of them.

"Hi, Teeny."

"Oh, Dee. How are you? Come aboard. I think there's a cold beer in the ice box."

"I don't want to bother you. I see you're reading. Love that Paretsky stuff. I was looking for Elvis. I kind of need his help on something."

"Well, Dee. Next to me, he thinks you're the coolest thing on two legs. He's at the store, but he gets off at four."

I asked them to come by for a cocktail and hors d'oeuvres. I didn't have any, but I knew Elvis and Teeny would be happy with a bag of chips and some onion dip.

They came down the dock at a little after four in their customary position, joined at the hip. If everybody looked at each other the way they did, we'd have a damned fine world. Unfortunately, creatures like Bijet and his boys crawled out from under their rocks all too often.

I had mixed a pitcher of Planter's Punch. They like the sweet stuff, and on occasion, so do I. Despite concerns about my Sterling, those occasions came around a lot when my own Prince Charming was present.

After we had worked over the dip, I broached my request.

"Elvis, I'm sure Teeny told you. I need some help. The kind that comes naturally to your type of genius."

The pride burst out of her. I was talking about her man. He ducked his head and grinned sheepishly. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had said, "Aw shucks, Ma'am."

"I'm working on a case. There's a thug goes by the name of Bijet. He's a gang type, leads the Ju Ju D's here in Lauderdale. It might take cracking the police files. I need everything I can get on him. Also met a guy. Sounds corny, but he's become very special to me. Still, there are some things about him I just don't know. Name is Sterling Major."

"Sterling Major the sports agent?" Teeny asked.

"The same," I said.

"Wow, he's a friend of yours? Handles some of the biggest names in the NBA, not to mention some hot property for the NFL. He has a reputation for being tough, but clean. Gets top dollar for his clients and keeps them out of trouble. I've seen his picture in the paper. Wow."

"All true, but he doesn't talk much about his background. I guess I'm curious. We have gotten very close. I just want to be sure I don't do something I'll regret later." Yeah, I thought . . . like play house in a penthouse on the ocean.

Elvis finally spoke more than one word at a time. "Dee, I'm off in the morning. I'll have some time. For you, I'll use it. If you can check with me before I go to the store, I should have something for you. I'll be on the boat or you can call if you need to."

I wanted to hug that skinny body, but I knew Teeny would handle that duty. They left and I was alone. That was plenty okay until the phone rang. I was hoping for S. No such luck. I thought at first the receiver was dead or I'd been cut off. Then I heard the breathing followed by a voice I thought I recognized.

"I get de word. Don' worry. You safe. Your friens . . . maybe not so much." The phone went dead. That was a message that called for one more drink. It was bitter going down.
Chapter 11

The next morning I hung around the boat for a while, did a little house cleaning, including much overdue laundry. But mostly I was thinking. Bijet's call had definitely given me the chills. S had said I would be safe . . . and I guess I was, but that casual comment about "my friens" worried the hell out of me. What exactly did that mean? My friends? I guess that meant Ricky, Henri, and now, Evelyn. I didn't know whether Grace figured in that equation or not. And what would Elvis uncover about the man I was almost in love with? S and I were scheduled for lunch at 11:30, but true to his word, my skinny bag boy delivered the goods sooner.

I locked the boat and was halfway down the dock when Elvis hurried over.

"Up early. Couldn't sleep. Went to work. Maybe some stuff you don't want to know."

He handed me a file folder with a few sheets of printed paper. "Sorry, Dee," he said and ambled back to the Catalina. I stuffed the documents under my arm and headed for the old Focus. She was damned sure ugly, but she started like a rabbit let loose from her cage and roared toward the office.

I unlocked the door. I hadn't seen Ricky's Caddy and there was no sign of him. Not unusual. Maybe dogging some unfaithful husband or checking some records at the city hall. Anyway, I was kind of glad. I wanted some time to see what was in Elvis' care package. I made some crappy coffee and considered a shot of Jameson. But it was early and I wanted my head to be perfectly clear.

I opened the folder and spread the sheets on my desk. Elvis had made a few notes. The file on Bijet was thick. His real name was DeLain Changette. He had been arrested six separate times, assault, drugs, even an attempted murder charge. He walked every time. There was no proof, but apparently he had his hand in some legitimate businesses. A dummy corp called Change for the Better even owned some real estate in Fort Lauderdale: a dry cleaning business, a liquor store, a couple of neighborhood groceries, and a warehouse. The cops hadn't been able to verify any of it . . . too many layers of sham bureaucracy, but the connections were there.

Sterling was actually George Sterling Major. When the feds had indicted him for money laundering in Charlotte, North Carolina, the Sterling part was missing. That was 2001. He didn't do any time, actually never went to trial. Insufficient evidence. Still, an indictment meant that some serious shit had gone down. That "measure of influence" thing stuck in my mind. Okay . . . Why . . . and with whom?

I pored over the file a couple of times, but the records were clear and my questions had no answers. At least not now. I called Ricky's home, then his cell. No answer either place. I left messages. I decided to try Evelyn, but she was out of the office. That might explain a lot.

S showed up right on time, as usual. I got in the Jag and he headed for the little pizza place on A1A. There must have been some event at the Swimming Hall of Fame, because the kids in their Speedos were all over the sidewalk. They strutted and preened and laughed like the world would end in fifteen minutes. Actually it was fun to watch them. The brown flesh was innocent . . . even sweet, but it had a sexual vibe that was hard to deny.

S and I sat outside in the corner. It was open, but between the bodies and the noise, we had a surprising measure of privacy. I spoke first.

"So George, what are you in the mood for? I'm thinking The Meat Lover's Supreme."

"I knew you'd find out sooner or later. I'm sorry. I just couldn't find a good time to tell you."

"I gotta tell you, S. I don't much like it. You told me you were falling in love. You asked me to move in with you. So when was that 'good time' gonna happen?"

"Okay, Dee. Guilty as charged. But if you love me even a little bit, at least give me a chance to tell my side of it."

I nodded and he began.

"I played a little ball at a small college near Charlotte. I wasn't big time and I knew it. But I used to go to the courts downtown. Sometimes I was the only white man among the big black trees. I minded my own business and fed the giants on the court. They liked it. I met some good guys and some bad ones. I gotta say I was smart, but too smart. That led to some problems and some dumb decisions. I had a small consulting firm. It became a front for other activities."

"Like money laundering?"

"Yeah. When the Feds caught up with me, I knew I was screwed. The question was who else I'd screw along with me. They offered me a deal, witness protection and all of perks. I thought about it long and hard. I figured the bad boys would find me sooner or later if I rolled on them. Then I could say bye, bye permanently. I sure as hell didn't like those ass holy bastards in the dark suits, but I fed them a little information. I finally made a deal, but not with the boys with badges. I told the thugs I would keep my mouth shut if they could get me off. They promised high priced lawyers. Lots of technicalities, but they had to understand. After it was over, I was going straight. They had to leave me alone. The bottom line is I have contacts on both sides of the fence. I used one to get Bijet off your back."

I told him about the clown's call. "That wasn't part of the deal," he said. His face was grim.

The pizza smelled delicious, but it just didn't melt in my mouth. I sucked down the Yuengling draft and sat silently.

"That's it, Dee. You want to walk? I don't blame you."
Chapter 12

He dropped me off at the office. I don't want to tell you this, but I cried. When I couldn't hold back the tears any longer, I realized that yes . . . I was in love with S, Sterling, George . . . whatever the hell you wanted to call him. I let the agony flow for a minute just like a child who was taunted in the playground. Then I tried to collect myself and wondered what to do with the rest of the day. I still hadn't heard from Ricky.

I called my old boss, Captain Sullivan, at the precinct on the off chance he had heard from Ricky. No luck. I explained what had happened, leaving out a few details, and what I was thinking. He listened. When I mentioned Bijet, his ears perked up.

"Oh hell, Dee. My pal, Delain. I hope you guys aren't mixed up with that thug. He has a sheet as long as my arm. You name it, he's done it. Very dangerous character, but keeps himself layered with miles of cheap-ass lackeys and some damned good legal advice. Bottom line, our boy doesn't take no for an answer."

"I kind of figured that out," I said, "but I'm sitting on an ace."

"Yeah . . . well, sit tight and let me see if I can get the latest. It's too early for an official missing persons report, but I'll do what I can and get back to you. I know you can take care of yourself, but, for God sakes, make sure you're armed at all times."

Captain Sullivan would be good for his word. He'd always liked Ricky. We made clean arrests and helped him take some of the bad guys off the streets. And I'm not gonna be shy. He loved Diabla. He even got me reinstated. I would have gone except for Ricky. Now I just had to find him.

Evelyn finally returned my call. Ricky and Henri had stayed at her place over night. She had fixed lasagna with homemade noodles, a nice Caesar salad and chocolate cake for dessert. The combination was a little weird, but a good time was had by all. After an early bowl of Rice Krispies, Ricky had left to take Henri to school. That was the last she'd seen of either of them. She made me promise to call if I heard anything.

It was now 1:30. I decided to wait until two to panic. It wasn't like Ricky to stay incommunicado for that long. I tried both his numbers. No answer. Then I called Grace. She hadn't seen Henri. He had called last night. He was safe and having one lovely time. "Dose people very nice to me, Momma." She assumed he was at school. I didn't tell her anything. I damned sure didn't want to alarm her. I asked her to call when he got home. She agreed and hung up.

About three-thirty, the phone rang. I was afraid to pick it up. I stared at the receiver and reluctantly put it to my ear. Henri was home. Ricky had dropped him off in front of the school, then driven off. He told her he had taken the bus home. I listened to Grace. She was happy and seemed unconcerned. Henri assured her he had been good, even made an A on a math test. I listened, but something didn't register. I was guessing, but Henri's story didn't make sense. Ricky was missing and as far as I knew, Henri was the last person to see him. I hate to talk about hunches. The word smacks of bullshit, so let me politely call it intuition. I asked Grace if I could come by and talk to Henri.

Evelyn wanted to go, but as far as I was concerned, she was a civilian. And those people often just get in the way.

"Ev, I understand you're worried, but I can handle this alone," I said as delicately as I could.

"I know what you're thinking, Dee. But there are some things you don't know. Believe me, I can be very helpful in a crisis. Pick me up in ten minutes. I'll be ready. I'll tell you about it on the way over to Henri's.

She got in the car, looking quite dazzling . . . as usual, but her face was gray and taut. She clutched her Coach handbag like it held something she couldn't live without. Maybe it did. She started slowly.

"I've always been a CPA, but I worked for another agency for several years. You've heard of them. The Secret Service. I was a financial analyst, but my primary job, like everybody else, was to protect the President and carry a gun."

She raised her hand and patted the handbag. Then she raised the bag and placed her palm on something very hard, and I suspected, very deadly.

"You will probably remember the incident. It happened a few years back. I was at the White House when some lunatic scaled the fence. He got by the agent at the front door and wandered around before someone finally shot him. That someone was me. Our crazy was DOA. Fortunately, the President had left earlier in the day on Air Force One. There was a virulent discussion about undue use of force. The guy had recently been an outpatient at a mental health clinic in Maryland. Wasn't taking his meds. His family went ballistic. I wasn't told, but I think the Feds paid them off to shut up and go away. Next thing I knew I had a nice severance package and I was looking for work. Fortunately, I still had a few friends at the agency. One of them made a call and presto. I was offered a cushy position at a well-respected firm a long way from Washington. It was simple. Do my job, keep my lips tightly sealed and everything would be just hunky dory. It's been working nicely for quite a while."

"Damn it, Evelyn."

"There was no need for you to know before now. But this isn't about us, it's about Ricky. You have to find him and I can help."

It got real quiet in the car, but soon we were parked in front of Grace's apartment.

She opened the door before we got to the top step of the porch. Henri was standing behind her, almost hiding in her shadow. She showed us in and offered coffee. Henri sat on the worn sofa and Evelyn and I sat across from him in a couple of wingbacks with thread-bare arm rests. I wanted my voice to be gentle, but firm.

"Henri, I know your mom has always told you how important it is to be truthful, especially when times are tough. This is one of those times. You know Ricky is missing. He is your friend. He has tried to protect you. He loves you, and we are worried about him."

Grace came in with three cups and a carafe on a plastic tray. She poured for both of us and offered sugar and creamer. The coffee was hot and dark. The pungent smell had a deep measure of comfort in it, but my hands were still unsteady. Ev spoke.

"So Henri, tell us about school today."

"I no go. De Ju Ju's grab me dis morning. Ricky, too." He was holding back tears, but that wouldn't last. "I don' know where. Dey blindfold us. Take me into a room, like an office. Bijet talk to me."

"What did he say? Tell them, Henri," Grace instructed.

"He say, 'I love you, Henri. I loved yur brother, but we must all find our place. Yurs is wit us,' He want me join de Ju Ju D's. He promise to protect me and my momma. Say no harm come while he look over us. He give me dis."

Henri reached in his pocket and pulled out a twisted red bandanna. There were five silver dollars in a lump within the folds. They gleamed in the palm of his black hand.

"He promise much more if I be wit dem. Do what dey say. I ask him, my momma be safe? He smile, put his hand on my shoulder . . . 'Yes, you are now our family,' he tell me. I am now Ju Ju D, Momma. You no haf to worry. Dey don' hurt you." He nodded to Grace. She had covered her face in her hands. The tears crept from between her fingers. Her lips formed words we weren't meant to hear. Henri put his head in her lap and whispered softly to her, "Don' cry."

I walked over to the sofa and took his hand. He stood. I held him to me. He looked up sadly, his golden eyes misted over. "You find Ricky?" he pleaded.

"Yes, Evelyn and I will find him and it will all be okay."

I forced those words out of my mouth. I desperately wanted them to be true. We thanked Grace and left. I told Evelyn we were going to take a little detour by the local Publix. She looked at me like I was slightly deranged. Hey . . . not the first time that's happened.
Chapter 13

I picked up some bagels, a frozen pizza and two six packs of Kalik. Then I made sure we were in the checkout line where Elvis was bagging. I paid cash. He smiled that beautiful, shy smile of his and stowed the groceries.

"Elvis," I whispered, "Can you find the address of the warehouse you told me about?" It was probably a stupid question.

"Got it." He picked up a discarded receipt from the floor and reached for the pen in the pocket of his green apron. He wrote it down quickly. It was the photographic memory that Teeny often bragged about. She'd be proud of her man.

I pulled him to me and kissed him on the cheek. His bony knees buckled. I thought he was going to collapse from embarrassment, but he went back to his line with a shudder and a grin about the size of Chicago.

We went back to the boat. Ev left her heels on the dock and we went below. I popped a couple of Kaliks and dialed the remote number to check calls at the office. No Ricky . . . and that was the only one that mattered. Ev took a long swig on the bottle and got things rolling.

"Tell me everything you can about this Bijet. I need to listen and to write."

She removed a .38 caliber Sig Sauer from the Coach and placed it on the table. I had a hard time imagining her with her hand on the grip and her finger on the trigger. Then I looked into her eyes. She was in full agent mode. She had killed a man. No trace of emotion, just a cold, hard stare waiting for business to begin.

I told her everything I knew about Bijet and the Ju Ju D's. I explained the situation with Henri's brother, Jacques, their belief in the "Kiss of Death" and the encounter we had with Bozo at Bugsy's. She listened and wrote. I'm not sure why. Her mind was as cool and sharp as broken glass. She was silent until I finished. Then she placed her elbows on the table and cradled her chin, one long finger aside her nose like a Coco Chanel version of Santa Claus. The red polish paled beside her olive skin. We were thinking the same thing.

"Perhaps a nocturnal visit is in order," she said quietly.

I pulled Elvis' note out of my pocket and laid it on the table. The address was on the other side of the river, not far from the line between Riviera Beach and Lauderdale.

"Run me by the accounting office to pick up my car. I'll get ready and meet you back here around 1 A.M."

I nodded. I left her sitting in the leather seat of the Mercedes and heard the engine hum to life. I unlocked GREAT GESTURE and went below. Then I ate another of my famous gourmet meals, a tuna sandwich on rye and a handful of week old chips. A quick glass of cabernet and I was asleep on the settee. My internal alarm went off around midnight. I washed my face and put on my black ninja garb. I looked like a fugitive from Bruce Lee's "Fists of Fury," but what the hell? I was working and I always look stunning in black. I checked the .38, then placed it in the leather holster at my waist. I pulled my jacket down over it. Maybe a little charcoal under the eyes? No that would definitely be overkill and this wasn't the NFL. I clicked the padlock on the hatch boards and walked up to the parking lot. I had the Focus running when Ev parked the Mercedes.

She popped the door and sat in the passenger seat. She wore a chocolate running suit and black Nikes. She, too, had an interesting bulge at her waist. It screamed nine mil. I knew my old four wheeled beast was slumming for her, but my baby would get us there and it wouldn't be nearly as conspicuous as a new red convertible in what I was sure would be a bad part of town.

I was right. I had made a couple of wrong turns, but we were now parked in an alley a couple of blocks from the warehouse. Several of the street lights were out and the sidewalk was shrouded in shades of gray. There was a rusty junker on blocks with the tires missing and all of the windows smashed in. The whole scene was ominous, but it was deserted . . . at least as far as I could tell. I welcomed the darkness. Sometimes the night is your friend, especially if you're in a place you shouldn't be in.

Evelyn and I slinked through the shadows. The warehouse looked deserted. No lights or signs of recent activity. I pulled out my penlight and checked the door knobs and the asphalt leading to the entrance. Nothing but dust. There was a rusty chain and an old padlock on the gate that led to the side. I thought we might have to scale the fence, but when I yanked the lock, it fell open with a muted click. We crept toward the door.

Ev ventured a tight beam through the dusty windows. It sliced through the inky void. Nothing. We tried the side door. There was a little resistance, but it creaked open just enough for us to slip inside. Ev drew the Sig from her waistband and motioned me to follow. She held it down, pointed at the concrete, but ready to come up firing at an instant. The place was deserted. A big empty space with nothing but cobwebs and flecks of dust floating and reflecting in the flashes of our lights. We checked a few doors off the main space. Probably old offices. Broken glass, a few battered file cabinets, some garbage here and there. But unless you believe in ghosts, we were alone.

"It's time to get the hell out of here," I whispered. She cut her eyes and bobbed her head up and down.

We talked on the way back to the marina, but not much. Our little field trip had accomplished little besides denying us some much needed sleep. She got in her sparkling red chariot and was gone before I could say goodnight. I climbed onto GREAT GESTURE and poured a small tot of Jameson. It's times like this that I wish I was still smoking. But old habits die hard and I sure didn't need that one again. Where the hell was Ricky? Was he even still alive? I lay down and began to drift off.

Bijet's face was up against mine. I could feel the fetid breath collapsing onto my cheeks. He smiled and ran his thick tongue over his lips. I could see the bubbles of the wet saliva on them. He got closer. There was a feral sound, almost like the purring of some giant predatory cat, coming from the folds of his chest. I knew I was dreaming, or more accurately, you could call it a nightmare. But somehow I believed that this "Kiss of Death" was very real. I could feel the yellow sickness burning in me and the fiery bile clogged my throat. I shook myself awake. Suddenly I was very cold. I grabbed an Afghan from the cushion and wrapped up in a fetal ball. I fought it for a while, soon enough I was asleep. No more nightmares, no more visions of death, only a haunting fear that we would never find Ricky . . . at least not alive.
Chapter 14

When I woke up, I felt like shit. I glanced at the mirror and confirmed it. I was shit. My hair was oily and my skin had a greasy look to it. My mouth was dry and it tasted like I had been eating some dead thing. I forced myself into the shower and scrubbed every part I could reach. It was better, but not much. I made some coffee and doused it with Jameson. It was early, but what the hell? In some perverted way I guess I had earned it. So what to do next?

I pulled out my notebook and gripped my trusty ballpoint, but no words came. At least I had Ev, and as long as she stayed cool and rational, that was a plus. But I knew she was in agony over Ricky. Hell . . . she loved the man. I did, too. She might just crack and I just might join her. We seemed so damned helpless.

My mind went to S. I hadn't heard from him since our "little talk." I thought about calling, but it wasn't the time. I had a longing that stuck in my gut, hollowed me out, and permeated my entire being. I wanted him to hold me, rock me like a child and whisper it would all be all right. Wishful thinking. Maybe it was time to grow up. Good old Dee, she sure knew how to run them off. I guess I had done it again. Under normal circumstances, that would have been okay as long as I got laid regularly and in a proper fashion. But not with Sterling. Insipid clichés crowded my consciousness. "This is different." Oh yeah . . . and pigs can fly. "Quit your whining, bitch," I told myself. Time to get over this 'love' thing. No purple pansies and picket fences for Diabla. Sorry, that's the way it is for tough bitches. Get used to it and swallow the tears.

I went to the office. Nothing had changed. I tried to get busy and I still had to make the rent. When my cell rang, I snatched it. No caller ID, but I knew the voice.

"I so sorry your visit last night prove unfruitful. We all need our beauty sleep."

"Where's Ricky, you bastard?"

"Ah . . . wit de names again. It does not flatter a lovely lady such as yurself. Yur mother would not be proud. Perhaps a bit more courtesy and some patience wud serve you well. Bijet know things you wish to know."

"Where is Ricky?" I demanded.

"Yu are classic case of de right place at de wrong time. Visit us again in de morning, but remember. Yu haf safe passage. No need of the .38. Not so yur lady frien'. Yu come . . . only yu, and he is yurs. We be watching . . . any signs of others, you no see yur partner again 'cept maybe at de morgue"

He hung up. I was scared shitless. Only a fool would go back to that warehouse alone. He said I had 'safe passage', but in the past I'd made a strict policy never to trust a psychopath. So far I was still breathing. Nevertheless, if Ricky was there, I couldn't leave him. After listening to Bijet, I couldn't call Ev. I couldn't put her in that murky swamp that I was about to wade into up to my neck. It was me. I told myself to be a big girl, but I sure didn't feel like it. I would play their game if I had any chance to get Ricky, even it meant leaving myself naked before those bastards. And the .38, tough shit. It was just like the insurance commercial . . . "don't leave home without it."

I didn't sleep . . . finally crawled out of the v berth around 4 A.M. Covered my body with an old running suit and packed the S and W in the leg holster. It might not help, but the feel of the cold steel against my calf gave me a temporary reprieve from my churning guts. I wanted to be at the warehouse a little before dawn. I drove past the site one last time and decided to park in front. Hell, they knew I was here. If they wanted to take me out, hopefully it would be quick, if not painless.

The gate we had entered a couple of nights ago was open and so was the warehouse door. There were plenty of footprints in the dust leading in and out. I examined the marks . . . $200 Nikes, no doubt. I gripped the .38 and went in without a sound. No sign of anything living in the empty space . . . except for Ricky.

He was duct taped to a scarred wooden chair, his head resting on his chest. No movement, but as I got closer I could see his chest heaving in silent rhythm. He looked up and tried to speak, but the tape held his lips fast. One more quick scan with the .38 and I was stripping the gray adhesive from his entire body. He got up quickly and pointed to the door. I tried to put my arm around his waist, but he held it off.

"I can walk."

We made it into the pale light of morning and got into the car. I glanced at his face. A few spots of dried blood, mostly around his temple and his mouth, but not much swelling and no deep cuts visible. He looked pretty damned good for a guy who had been kidnapped and, I guessed, released to deliver a message. One that involved death.

"I don't know why, but they went easy on me. Hell, they could have beat me to a pulp . . . even killed me and dumped my corpse in the river. How is Henri?"

I told him about Ev and our meeting with Henri and Grace. That Henri was now a Ju Ju D.

He coughed and a little more blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. I handed him a Kleenex and related a little more of the story, our previous visit to the warehouse, Sterling, Captain Sullivan and anything else that seemed pertinent. It was all out of order and I was still kind of freaked out, but he seemed to follow every bit and even asked some key questions.

He didn't seem surprised when he heard about our discredited Secret Service Agent. I guess Evelyn had already shared that tale of woe. He made a crooked smile when I told him how Ev had refused to let me handle things alone. It was the love being reignited in his breast . . . yeah, like that fire had ever gone out. Then he got real quiet. I looked over at him and I could see the furrows deepening in his brow.

"So Ricky. What else? There's something you're not telling me."

"Okay . . . there is . . . The two buffaloes started at me. Believe me, those boys are full of enthusiasm, but Bijet called them off. They were highly disappointed. I honestly didn't understand it. I figured if they didn't kill me, at least they'd want a very damaged product to display as a warning to anyone who messed with them. I was taped to the chair, couldn't move. They could do whatever they wanted. He smiled and came over to me. Stuck his face right in front of mine."

"I love yu, Ricky. Yu are brave and loyal. I wish it was different. I cud haf used a man like yu. But it was not smart to come into de territory of Big Ju Ju. Dis neighborhood and all its people belong to me. I speak . . . dey listen . . . and dey pay. It is de way of de world. The meek will never inherit the earth. Dat is bullshit. It is ruled by de strong and de rutless. Dat wud be me."

Ricky paused, and coughed with a labored breath. Then he went on with Bijet's words.

"I wud kiss yu, but it is not manly. So I will render yu my affections in a liddle bit different manner."

Ricky forced the words out of his mouth, "He smiled. Then he spit into his hand and placed it on the spot here." He pointed to the dried blood on his temple. "Then again to my bleeding lip."

"Then he backed up and smiled. 'I have given yu my gift,' he said. They left and I sat taped to this chair in the dust and the darkness."

My skin was crawling. It was Bijet's "Kiss of Death" . . . maybe a different form, but the intent was clear.
Chapter 15

I called Ev, told her I had Ricky.

"Bring him to my place . . . now."

I did as she instructed. We made it into the penthouse. Then she told me to go away . . . not too politely.

I tried to work. I tried to sleep. Finally I tried to drink, but the image of Bijet lurked behind my eyes and sucked up my soul like some sort of incubus. Ricky seemed okay, but each time I opened my eyes "The Kiss of Death" smothered me like a shroud from every corner. The day wouldn't go away, but I chased it by shuffling papers, and making calls that I really didn't need to make.

Then I thought of Sullivan. I didn't want the cops out running down a wild goose. He breathed a sign of honest relief when I told him about Ricky. He told me to phone him if anything came up or he could provide more information.

"You need it, you got it," were the Captain's last words.

But what I needed was me and Bijet alone in a dark place with the S and W pointed at his head.

The cell rang early. I was hoping for Sterling. I hadn't heard word one from him since our somewhat fateful conversation. I was worn out on the tough broad routine. I needed a man so I could bury my head in his chest and sob. It just wasn't happening.

"Dee, its Evelyn. I couldn't get his fever down. He was vomiting every half hour, bile and even some blood. I tried everything. No luck."

"How about the hospital?"

"We're at Broward County Memorial right now. He's in intensive care. The doctors are baffled. Room 601."

"I'm going to make one call, then I'm on my way."

I dialed Dr. Paul Galliano and told him enough of what had happened. He said to call as soon as there was an update from the hospital. I promised I would. I knew I looked like crap as I sprang into the dusty Focus, but it wasn't time to get on my diva look.

I'm sure I broke a record slew of traffic laws on the way, but soon I was parked in the visitors' lot. My finger got numb in the lobby hammering away at the button on the elevator. But machines take their own sweet time. I told the nurse I was Ricky's wife. I think the look on my face put a quick end to further questions. She handed me a set of green paper scrubs, two latex gloves, and a mask. "Put them on," she told me, "and under no circumstances whatsoever are you to have any physical contact with the patient." She glared at me until I nodded understanding, then told me his sister was in the room with him. Sister? I figured Ev had pulled a fast one to get him admitted and gain unlimited access to the room.

I walked into the room quietly. Some sort of white cottony cover had been slipped over the doorknob. The smell of disinfectant hit my nose like a belt of ammonia. The walls were painted in that sickly color of green that these places buy by the container load. I nodded to Ev. She shook her head, but said nothing.

Ricky lay on the ghostly sheets. A plastic tube leading from the oxygen dispenser on the wall was taped across his nose. His chest heaved, but the breathing was way too quiet. On the other side of the bed was an intravenous feed with two needles, one in his arm just below the elbow and the other in the top of his hand. I watched the rise and fall of the heart monitor. It seemed stable. His blood pressure was a little low, but close enough to normal.

The area around his eyes was black, but the wounds he had sustained were already starting to close up. His skin had a jaundiced look beneath the surface. I got close to his ear and spoke to him. He didn't move.

Evelyn pulled me into a corner to the right of the silent TV set.

"They can't get his fever down. They are trying to rehydrate him and treat it with antibiotics. They gave him an anti-nausea drug and at least he isn't vomiting constantly. He had a lot of congestion, but they think they've got that under control. They've run multiple tests, but they don't know, Dee. They don't know what it is or how to treat it. The doctor was honest. He told me they were shooting in the dark."

She sniffed and fought off a sob. I looked back at Ricky. Now I could see the distinctive tint of yellow beneath his skin. Grace's description of Jacques' death flashed in my mind.

"I gotta make a call," I said and slipped out of the room.

Dr. Galliano answered on the first ring. I told him about Ricky, tried to repeat all of the things Ev had told me.

"Look," he said, "I've got hospital privileges at Broward Memorial. I'll be up as soon as I complete my eleven o'clock lecture at the university. I should be there a little after lunch."

I thanked him, gave him the room number and hung up. I went down the hall to use the restroom. Yeah, I looked like shit when I came in and now I looked like more shit. On the way back down the hall, my cell vibrated. I checked the caller ID. It was Grace.

"Oh, God, Dee. Henri came home in tears. He told me about Ricky. Some of the gang had made jokes about what they called Ricky's final performance. One called it a 'bloody Swan Song.' Henri didn't know that expression, but he figured it meant something evil. He asked me. I told him. What have they done to Ricky? Is he okay?"

I told her where we were and described the symptoms. There was a hush over the phone. I thought for a moment it had gone dead. Then I heard her breathing in short gasps. I said her name and barely heard the words she spoke, "The Mondatti. He has the Mondatti. It is 'The Kiss." Then she hung up.

I went back to the room and told Evelyn about the two calls.

"Mondatti? Kiss of Death? Sounds like old wive's tales."

"It does Ev, but a lot of people believe them, and that may make it real."
Chapter 16

Dr. Galliano entered the room in the same outfit that Ev and I were forced to wear. He smiled beneath the mask.

"I've already talked to Doctor Ling here at the hospital and asked him if I could consult. He's a very good man. Skilled, smart, patient, and he has called in a couple of specialists for a second opinion. But this case has them all very confused. He signed off on my request to examine Ricky. I need to ask you both to leave for a few minutes. Have some coffee, walk around. You both look like you could use a break."

I followed Ev out and snatched off my mask. Even with the hospital smell blanketing the air, it felt good to breathe without the synthetic fabric cloying at my face. We walked down the hall to the waiting area. Actually the machine coffee tasted pretty damned good, but it was probably because I hadn't eaten since last night. Neither of us spoke. Ev sat and I stretched for a moment then settled beside her. I placed my hand on her knee. She folded her arms and began to shake, like winter had suddenly dropped into the room. I had a hard time not joining her, but I wanted to hear very clearly when Dr. Galliano spoke. That's what happened about ten minutes later.

He didn't know much more than we did. I asked him about his theory of an Ebola carrier, a man who could transmit the disease, but wouldn't be affected by the virus, himself.

"I can't say for sure. We do know that what Ricky has is not Ebola, but it is viral and it is resistant to any kind of treatment that we can administer at this time. We've got to keep him hydrated and control the fever. Past that, we wait. I will go online. We physicians have our own websites and reference through the CDC and other agencies. Perhaps I will find something. There is always hope."

Yes, I thought . . . and there is always death.

I told him about Grace's call and ask about "the Mondatti." He shook his head, but promised to include it in his search. He started back down the hall, removing the scrubs as he went.

Four days later Evelyn had hardly left the room. I was trying to keep the business going, but without Ricky, I wondered if I could . . . or if I even wanted to. I spent hours in the room, insisting that she leave at least once a day to shower and change clothes. Each time she protested, but finally left, only to come back within an hour. Dr. Ling made rounds morning and afternoon, joined by Dr. Galliano in the late afternoon. We spoke outside the room after every visit, but the news was always the same. On the fifth night it happened.

It was near 2 A.M. Ev and I were asleep in the chairs on either side of his bed. I woke with a start. Something was different. I shook my head to get my senses. My focus fell on Ricky. His chest no longer rose. Then a panicked glance at the monitor. The line was flat. A nurse rushed into the room and took his pulse. She radioed for a defibrillator, but the yellow beneath his skin had been replaced by the gray color of soft clay. I didn't cry. Neither did Ev. That would be for later when each of us was alone in the darkness.

The ME asked for a release to do an autopsy. Still posing as the wife, I signed the document . . . but I requested that the body be released for cremation within 48 hours. They assured me they would do the best they could, then transfer the body to the funeral home that Ev and I had agreed on.

Ricky had always made it clear that he wanted no obituary, no formal ceremony, just the services of a Catholic priest and a quiet goodbye to those who were close in life. That was me and Evelyn. We both loved him, maybe in different ways, but it was love, nevertheless. I had known Father Martinez ever since I came to Lauderdale. I was never much for religion, hadn't been inside a church in years. But Ricky had told me once that even though "he wasn't a very good Catholic," he was born one and would die one. I guess he got his wish. The well intentioned priest met us at the mausoleum. It was quick and nobody said much.

As we turned to go, I saw Captain Sullivan standing beside his unmarked about twenty-five yards away. He took a step or two toward us and waited. When we got close, he took my arm and spoke in a near whisper.

"Bijet and his boys have lunch most days around two P.M. at hole in the wall called The Caribbean Dream. It's on a side street just north of downtown. 203 Garvey Lane. Can't tell you why, but the boys in blue rarely cruise that neighborhood in the afternoons. Saving themselves for the nighttime. That's when the serious thugs come out to play. Just thought you might like to know."

I looked at him and mouthed the word thanks without making a sound. Ev had heard every word. She squeezed my hand and we went to my car. When we had closed both doors, Evelyn put her hand on my forearm and turned to me. I expected tears, but instead an image of grim determination was etched into her face.

"Sorry Dee . . . no discussion . . . you have a new partner. It's me. I apologize for the short notice. I've already resigned at the firm and made a few calls. My PI license is at the courthouse."

I didn't know what to say. So I said nothing. The silence was as thick as smoke.
Chapter 17

It rained during the night. The leaden drops on the cabin top sounded like pings on a tin roof. The next morning was a nasty combination of fog and drizzle. Still nothing from S, but I damned sure wasn't going to call him. I was totally cried out and more than slightly hung over. My old pal Jameson is a friend and a comforter, but too much makes your head swell like an overripe cantaloupe. It sounds stupid, but I really didn't care. The only thing on my mind was the clown and how to get the sonovabitch.

Evelyn and I had agreed to meet at the office around ten. I took my time getting ready. Ricky would be awfully disappointed if he thought I was still in my bag lady persona, circumstances notwithstanding. I did the makeup, the hair, then dressed like I was headed for the runway. My only concession was the white Nikes. Even with the swollen eyes, I looked pretty damned good. I guess I wanted to do it . . . whatever it was . . . with class.

Ev came in right after me. It's like we had read each other's minds. Her mahogany hair was gleaming like a mink in heat. She had gone conservative, Halston, I suspected. Same problem as me with the swollen eyes, but minus that, she looked like a dark Giselle Bundchen or a lighter Tyra Banks.

We both knew why we were here. I shut off the phones and we began to plan.

It really wasn't much. We would stake out the Caribbean Dream and if Bozo and the buffaloes showed up, we'd offer one hot greeting. We went by the local Rent-a-Wreck and picked out the oldest, dirtiest, dinged-up, Taurus on the lot. We looked for tinted windows. Sometimes it's a good thing to be invisible. Hey, $29.95 could still get you semi-reliable transportation. She started up just fine, still a little life in the old V-6. It was about eleven when we pulled out of the lot.

In thirty minutes we were parked on Garvey Ave. just a few doors down and across the street from the Caribbean Dream. It was too damned quiet. I guessed all of the bad boys were sleeping off a night of hustling drugs and intimidating helpless neighborhood folks. It had cleared up and the Florida sun was scorching us like a couple of TV dinners in an oven on broil. The air conditioning was squealing its complaints. Marginally functional, to say the least. We sweated, cracked the windows, sipped coffee, and waited. A few people were in and out, but I figured the owner had the same problem we did making the rent. Of course, Bijet might be providing some help.

It was 2:30. I began to think our boy had opted for something a little fancier. What the hell, he could afford it. I started the wreck and was ready to pull from the curb when a shiny black Escalade came around the corner and parked right in front of the old store front. Buffalo number one squeezed his bulk from under the wheel. He looked up and down the street, then opened the rear door. I saw the top hat first. His hand thrust through the opening and the silk gleamed in the sun. The white greasepaint was glued to his face. I wondered if he slept in it. Buffalo number two got out on the other side and also did a scan. Then the three of them went into the Dream.

We sat very still. Ev and I both checked our weapons. Give them time to get served. Maybe they'd be preoccupied with lunch when we burst through the door. I won't lie to you. I had a serious case of the heebie jeebies and from the look on Ev's face, we shared the same disease. But we both knew it wasn't about us. It was about Ricky . . . and his killer.

I nodded at her and we exited the car. I had the .38 in my hand and at my side, my index finger already on the trigger. When I opened the door, I smelled the hot pork and rice. Bijet had a side of plantains and a clear milkshake cup of what looked like thick Sangria. The Buffaloes were at a separate table to the left wolfing down huge plates of unidentifiable stuff. They all froze when we bolted in. Ev propped a chair at an angle under the door knob and flipped the open sign to closed. Sorry. The Dream was not accepting customers at this time.

Bijet looked at me and laughed.

"Ahhh, I see yu take my advice. Yu look quite lovely. De hair, de makeup, even de outfit. It suits a lady such as yurself so much better. Would yu like some plantains? I have more dan I can eat."

Number one started to ease up from his table, but before he was halfway, Ev's Sig was trained on his chest. He slid back down into the chair, raised his hands in a mock no-offense gesture, and smiled.

I wanted to shoot the sonovabitch right there, but I also wanted him to know it was his time to die. I wanted to watch him squirm, hoped he'd piss his pants just before I put a .38 slug between his eyes. I waited.

"Yu know dat dis means de order of yur safety is no longer valid. We can kill yu at any time and yur partner, of course, beautiful as she is. Such a waste. But perhaps yu sit down. We talk. Bijet is not witout resources. I am truly sorry about Ricky, but when in power, it is sometimes necessary to make an example. Yu want to kill me, but dere are others. Dey are loyal. Don' think if I am gone dat dis is over." He pointed at the chair next to him. Ever polite and gracious.

"I don't doubt you, Bijet. I'll admit it. I am very much afraid of the Ju Ju's. I don't want to have to look over my shoulder every time I cross the street in this town. But you are right. Sometimes it is necessary to set an example. The example is you."

I held the S and W with both hands. I took a couple of steps closer and trained it on his forehead. I was fifteen feet from him. I didn't think I could miss from this distance. My finger began to squeeze the trigger.

Suddenly I heard someone banging on the door. Ev turned for a moment and, like lightning, number one had her in bear hug from behind. I felt a slug like a lead bat hit the back of my neck. Number two was standing over me. He flexed his knee to drop his massive body onto my chest. I fired off a round into his belly. He looked startled, put his paw on the wound. He drew his palm up to his face and smelled the blood. A thick moment and he dropped. Then the mist came in. I fought the darkness, but it was circling and closing. I struggled, reaching for consciousness like a drowning man, but the dusky water was rising and I could feel the cling of the choking miasma consuming me.

Through the haze I heard the burst of a door exploding. I crawled to my knees. The second Buffalo was motionless on the floor beside the table. Ev's nine was across the room, far from her reach. Bijet sat astride her, holding her hands above her head. She squirmed and kicked, but his weight held her down. His face was inches from hers and his lips were like the fold s of a leech. The Kiss. The one that had sent Ricky into hell.

Shoot him, I thought . . . but my eyes were dancing like a tortured snake. There were two of everything and I wasn't sure which was which. If I didn't fire, she would wither and die with those goddamned tubes hooked up to her and her skin going from yellow to gray. But which one? I raised the .38. My hand was shaking. I had to go for broke.

My ears were slammed by the sharp report of a small caliber pistol. I looked up to see Sterling, a small Ruger in his hand. It was still pointed at Bijet's collapsing body. S put two more rounds in him as he fell off Evelyn. S offered his hand. She took it and struggled to her feet. The she grabbed the Sig and held it tightly, pointing first at the man sprawled beside her, then checking the two Buffaloes. Neither was moving.

Sterling knelt beside me. He shook me slightly. When my eyes began to focus, he kissed me lightly on the cheek.

"Time to go," he whispered.

I stopped for moment and stared at Bijet's corpse. Even through the blood oozing out of his mouth, the bastard was still grinning. I went back to the table and picked up the silk top hat. I dropped it next to the body as we left.

We walked out of the Dream, Ev and I on either arm of the man who had saved our lives. The old bomb purred to life. No blood and no bullet holes. I figured we'd get back the full deposit. The street was quiet and hot, the sun still hammering the innocent . . . and the guilty. Which ones were we?

No pedestrians on the street, and no cops. Captain Sullivan was right.
Chapter 18

Of course, the police investigated. They had to. It was a homicide. The owner of the restaurant had been in the back the whole time. Big surprise . . . he heard nothing, saw nothing. One of the Buffaloes was DOA and the other one was still in intensive care. He was conscious enough to tell the cops that he had just stopped in for lunch and didn't know "nutin' 'bout no shootin." I knew . . . and that was all that mattered. I didn't think anyone would miss the Ju Ju D's too damned much.

When we got back to the office, Ev started shuffling papers and making the partner's desk her own. She still trembled occasionally, but she hid it quite nicely. I hoped I was doing as well.

I called RASTA LUV. The voice on the line was unfamiliar. I asked for Grace and a lady courteously informed me that she and Henri had left town. She thought they had moved to be closer to relatives in Gifford, a small town north of Vero Beach. Grace apparently had a job up there at MULLIGAN'S on the beach. She didn't expect them back.

Sterling and I met for dinner at a little Italian place in town. The tables were small and the cloths had red and white checks. It was "bottle of red, bottle of white," just like the Billy Joel song. S apologized for not contacting me sooner. I told him that was okay. I thanked him for showing up in the right place at the right time. I didn't ask any more questions. I wasn't even sure I wanted the answers. Bijet's grin was still locked in my mind, but we didn't talk about that either. I told about my new partner.

"Ev is a tough lady," he said, "smart, quick, and loyal. I think it will work out just fine. But now it's time to talk about us."

I think I probably blushed. I don't do that very often, but right now it seemed awfully damned appropriate. He reached across the table and put his hand on mine. It was warm and it made me feel safe. It seemed like a long time since I'd had that in my breast.

"So what do you think? Could you be happy in a penthouse on the beach with a busy sports agent who can't cook or clean and has to hop a plane on short notice sometimes? Maybe I could throw in a housekeeper."

I laughed and tried to keep the smile from bursting out of me. After all, a girl needs to play hard to get on occasion. But what's the point? I always liked that old line from "The Godfather." "Make 'em an offer they can't refuse."

