Miami Run Page 7
“Answer it.”
“Yeah, I do drugs. Doesn’t everybody?”
“I figured you’d say that.”
The musician lowered his guitar. “What’s the big deal? Do you want to hear a request or not?”
“Yep.”
“What’s it called, dude?”
“Do you know This is a Stickup?”
The guitarist pondered for several seconds. “No. Can’t say as I do. How does it go?”
Hickok leaned forward. “It goes like this. You hand over your money, and I let you live.”
The musician grinned. “Are you puttin’ me on, dude?”
Hickok’s voice became flinty. “Do I sound like I’m puttin’ you on, you peckerwood? And if you call me ‘dude’ again, I’m gonna ram my Python barrels up your nose and see what happens when I pull the triggers.”
The guitarist blinked rapidly. “You’re not puttin’ me on!”
“You must have all the intellect in your family,” Hickok quipped.
“You’re really stealin’ my bread!” the man exclaimed in astonishment.
“Keep your voice down!” Hickok warned. “I couldn’t care less about your bread. I want your money. Now.”
The guitarist blanched, his lips quivering. “Like, this is for real!”
“The money,” Hickok prompted, his hands inching toward his Colts.
The musician noticed the movement and swallowed hard. “Take it! It’s all yours!”
“Be a nice… dude… and hand it to me,” Hickok directed.
With supreme care, the guitarist leaned over, retrieved the metal cup, and straightened. “Here. Just don’t shoot me!”
“I wouldn’t think of wastin’ the bullet,” Hickok commented, taking the cup in his left hand. It was two-thirds full.
“Like, this is a cosmic injustice!” the man stated belligerently.
“Get me riled and you’ll see an injustice,” Hickok said.
“I’m an artiste!”
“You’re a dipshit,” Hickok countered. “You’re lettin’ drugs mess up your head and cramp your talent.”
The guitarist snorted derisively. “You’re crazy! What do you know? Drugs expand my mind, dude. They make me more creative.”
“That’s why you’re standin’ here playin’ for small change?” Hickok retorted.
“I need my smack, man.”
“Smack?”
“The Big H.”
“Can you speak English?”
“Heroin, man. It chills me out. If I don’t get my fix, I freak out.”
Hickok gazed into the musician’s slightly disoriented eyes, recognizing the reflection of commingled craving and fear. He extended the cup.
“Here.”
The man gawked at the cup. “What?”
“Here. Take it. You need this more than we do.” Hickok wagged the cup and heard the coins jingle.
“You’re givin’ it back?” the man asked in disbelief.
“Take the damn cup!” Hickok snapped. He suddenly became aware of someone standing behind him and looked over his right shoulder.
Blade and Rikki were a foot away.
“What, exactly, are you doing?” Blade calmly inquired.
Hickok mustered a feeble grin. “Who? Me?”
The guitarist, unaware that the guy in buckskins, the giant, and the man in black were together, took a step toward the giant. “Stop him! He’s tryin’ to rob me!”
Blade glanced from the musician to the gunman. “Is that right? You’re robbing him in broad daylight in the middle of a park?”
“You said we need money,” Hickok responded.
“But I didn’t intend for you to steal it,” Blade said.
The guitarist stared from the giant to the guy in buckskins. “You two know each other?”
“How else will we get the money?” Hickok asked Blade.
“You two know each other!” the musician reiterated.
“We’ll find a way,” Blade stated. “First, we see if one of these buses goes to Miami Beach. Then we’ll find out how much it will cost for the three of us. After we know how much we’ll need, we’ll find a way to get it.”
“You want to take the bus to Miami Beach?” the guitarist questioned in astonishment.
“I figured this yahoo could spare a few coins,” Hickok commented.
The musician’s face was turning a light shade of crimson. His eyes glared from one to the other. “All this over the lousy bus?” He snatched the cup. “You morons!”
Hickok looked at the guitarist. “What’s eatin’ you?”
“What’s eatin’ me?” the musician exploded. “I’ll tell you what’s eatin’ me! You scared me half to death over a lousy bus fare! You threatened to blow out my brains for a bus ride!”
“I was only joshin’ you,” Hickok said.
The guitarist became madder. He leaned his guitar against his left leg and began sorting through the coins in the cup. “Of all the dumbass, screwball, wacked-out things I’ve ever heard—”
“I don’t see why you’re being so touchy,” Hickok remarked. “You’re still in one piece.”
The musician’s mouth moved, but no words came out. He held three large silver coins in his left hand and jabbed his arm at the gunman.
“Here!”
“What are they?” Hickok asked.
“What do they look like?” the guitarist retorted. “They’re your bus fare.”
“What?”
“You heard me!” the musician snapped. “It costs a buck to ride the shuttle bus from here to Miami Beach. There’s three bucks here. Enough for all three of you.”
“We don’t want your money,” Hickok stated.
“Take it.”
“No. You keep it.”
“Take the damn money!” the guitarist shouted.
“We’ll take it,” Blade said, stepping up and palming the coins. “And thank you.”
“Don’t thank me!” the musician barked. “I don’t want your gratitude! I just want you out of my life!”
“We’re going,” Blade assured him.
“And take this lunatic with you!” the guitarist demanded, nodding at the gunman.
“Who are you callin’ a lunatic?” Hickok responded.
“Get him out of here!”
Blade tugged on the gunfighter’s right arm. “Come on.”
Hickok shook his head and turned toward the buses. “Some people have no sense of humor.”
Chapter Seven
“May I help you?”
Blade smiled at the elderly desk clerk, then scrutinized the dozens of small wooden boxes on the wall to the rear of the front desk. “Yes. My name is John Clayton. I believe some forms were dropped off for me.”
“Forms?” the desk clerk said, turning toward the boxes. His balding pate was nonetheless slicked and combed, his cerulean suit immaculate.
“No one mentioned any forms—”
“The Narcs were supposed to leave them here for me,” Blade explained.
The desk clerk wheeled. “The Narcs! So you’re the gentleman!”
“Yes.”
The desk clerk stepped to the boxes and removed several folded sheets of paper from a box on the lower left. “It isn’t every day the Narcs drop off something.”
“I hope it wasn’t an inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience?” the desk clerk repeated, sounding shocked at the suggestion. “Helping the Narcs is an honor!” He placed the papers on the counter.
“Thanks,” Blade said, taking them and starting to leave.
“Will you be staying the night?” the desk clerk inquired hopefully. “I can reserve a suite for you right now.”
“I’ll think it over,” Blade said. He walked to the front entrance to the Ocean View and pushed through the glass doors.
Rikki and Hickok were waiting on the top step.
“Did they leave the papers?” Rikki asked.
Blade nodded, unfolding the three sheets.
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��I don’t see why we’re diddlin’ around with this nonsense,” Hickok remarked. “Are you plannin’ to file a formal complaint?”
“No,” Blade said.
“I know you,” Hickok stated. “You don’t do nothin’ without a reason.
What gives?”
“Your great plan, remember?”
“My plan?”
“To find a bigwig and force whoever it is to take us to the Masters,” Blade reminded the gunfighter.
“How’s this tie in?”
Blade examined the top sheet, a white piece of paper entitled FORM 1073 CITIZEN COMPLAINT. The second sheet, another white paper, bore a bold, black PAGE TWO at the top. He checked the third and final sheet and smiled. This one was a yellow paper, and handwritten in the middle of the page was the information he wanted. “Bingo.”
“What is it?” Hickok questioned.
“The name of Fowler’s Dealer and his address,” Blade replied.
Hickok grinned. “Now I get it.”
“The Narc wanted us to fill out the forms and drop them in the mail,” Blade said. “We’ll go him one better. We’ll deliver the forms personally.”
“So where does this big-time Dealer live?” Hickok inquired.
Blade read from the paper. “The Oasis Resort Hotel. It’s on Collins Avenue.”
“We’re on Ocean Drive now, right?” Hickok brought up.
“Yeah,” Blade said.
“How far is Collins Avenue from here?” Rikki queried.
“Let’s find out the same way we found this place,” Blade responded.
“Ask.”
The Warriors descended the half-dozen concrete steps to the street.
“Miami Beach sure comes alive at night,” Hickok commented.
Blade was thinking the same thing. The avenues and streets had been much less crowded two and a half hours ago when the shuttle bus from Bayfront Park had deposited them on Dade Boulevard after crossing the Venetian Causeway. The late afternoon heat had instilled a lethargy in the inhabitants, a sluggishness promptly dispelled by the enveloping shroud of darkness. Now, with a few stars faintly discernible in the inky sky, Miami Beach was a vibrant, hustling hub of activity. People thronged to the sidewalks. Vehicles packed the thoroughfares. And there was a distinct difference evident, as if those who roamed Miami Beach at night were a breed apart from the daytime dwellers. The clothing worn by the passersby consisted more of tailored suits and dresses instead of black leather and jeans. Even the cars prowling from block to block betrayed the meticulous care they received by their shiny paint jobs and gleaming bumpers and chrome strips.
A pair of women approached the Warriors, one in a sheer black dress, the second in a yellow blouse and short red skirt. Their hair was stylishly coiffured, their nails painted red, their lips a striking scarlet.
Hickok nodded at them and smiled. “Howdy.”
They stopped. The brunette in the red skirt raked the Warrior with a critical gaze. “Howdy yourself, handsome.”
“We need some help,” Hickok told her.
The woman laughed and nudged her friend. “I’ll bet you do, lover!”
“We’re open to anything except S and M,” the woman in the black dress added.
“S and M?” Hickok repeated quizzically.
“Yeah,” the brunette stated. “We don’t do the kinky stuff. A working girl has to draw the line somewhere.”
“It’s nice to know you ladies are holdin’ down jobs,” Hickok remarked, “and we really can use your help. Which way is it to Collins Avenue?”
The brunette’s brown eyes narrowed. “Is that all you want? Directions?”
“We’re lookin’ for the Oasis Resort Hotel,” Hickok elaborated. “Do you know it?”
“Yeah, we know it,” responded the one in the black dress.
“How do we get there?” Hickok inquired.
“Is that really all you want?” the brunette demanded.
“That’s it,” Hickok said. “We’d be in your debt.”
“You don’t want to turn a trick?” asked the brunette.
“This isn’t a blamed trick!” Hickok declared.
The women exchanged bemused glances. “Are there many like you at home?” the brunette asked.
“Nope,” Hickok said. “I’m one of a kind.”
“Figures,” the brunette stated. “So you need directions to the Oasis?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Go north three blocks,” she instructed them. “Then take a left. The next drag you’ll come to is Collins. Take a right. Go about a half-mile. The Oasis is on the right. You can’t miss it.”
Hickok grinned. “Thanks. Hope you ladies have a fun night.”
“Business before pleasure,” the brunette said, and they walked off.
“What did she mean by that?” Hickok queried.
“They must work the night shift,” Rikki speculated.
“Let’s go,” Blade directed, leading them to the north. He folded the papers and slid them into his right front pants pocket.
“What if this Dealer doesn’t want to take us to the Masters?” Hickok asked.
“He’ll take us,” Blade stated.
They traveled the three blocks to the appropriate intersection, then turned to the left. Their progress was slow, hampered by the press of the lively crowds.
“Will you look at that!” Hickok marveled.
A tall black woman was drawing near. She wore black, high-heeled shoes, a lavender skirt scarcely covering her shapely thighs, and a pair of silver cups constructed from a pliable material over her large breasts.
Purple tassels dangled from the tips of the cups.
“The womenfolk hereabouts sure don’t believe in modesty,” Hickok observed.
The Warriors reached Collins Avenue and took a right. The volume of pedestrian and vehicle traffic was twice that of Ocean Drive.
“I’m glad I don’t live in a city on a regular basis,” Hickok remarked.
“Give me the wide-open spaces any day.”
“Millions, maybe billions, lived like this before the war,” Blade mentioned pensively. “Overpopulation was a serious problem for most of the countries in the world.”
“No wonder they went off the deep end and tried to blow themselves sky-high,” Hickok said.
Blade glanced at Rikki. “Why are you so quiet?”
“Something is amiss,” the martial artist answered.
“Like what?”
Rikki’s thin lips tightened. “I don’t know. But I feel that something is wrong.”
Blade scanned the avenue in all directions. “I don’t see anything.”
Rikki shrugged. “I could be mistaken. My intuition is not infallible.”
Blade looked at Hickok. “Do you feel anything?”
“Hungry.”
“You’re a big help,” Blade muttered. He threaded his way to the north, bothered by Rikki’s revelation. The martial artist was not prone to needless worry or flights of fancy. Rikki was always levelheaded, even if the Zen he practiced did imbue him with a mystical air. If Rikki’s senses were telling him that something was wrong, then something was wrong.
But what?
What had they overlooked?
“It’s all this sea air,” Hickok quipped. “Everything seems fishy.”
Blade couldn’t help but grin. He searched the avenue for someone who might be tailing them or watching them surreptitiously.
Nothing.
Maybe Hickok was right.
They proceeded a quarter of a mile.
Blade was almost to an intersection when there was a tug on his right arm. He turned to find a thin man with a sparse mustache attired in a natty white suit and carrying a cane. “Yes?”
The man in white beamed. “I couldn’t help but notice you boys. I bet you’re from out of town, right?”
“Is it that obvious?” Blade responded.
“Your threads have a lot to do with it,” the man said.
&nbs
p; Hickok looked down at himself. “Threads?”
“What can we do for you?” Blade inquired.
“You’ve got it backwards, friend,” the man said. “It’s what I can do for you.”
“For us?”
“You name it, I can supply it,” the man boasted. “You want broads? I have a stable of the finest in Miami. You want to connect, I’m your source. Crack, smack, ludes, weed, whatever you want, the Genie can get.”
“Are you the Genie?” Blade questioned.
The man in white bowed. “At your service, sir! I don’t mean to brag, but my rep is as heavy as they come! I supply the tourists with the stuff dreams are made of. I—”
A young girl, not much over 15, abruptly materialized to the Genie’s left. She was wearing a lacy red dress and red shoes. Her hair was blonde, her face caked with makeup. Her arms were folded across her chest and she was shivering. “Genie?”
He stared at her in disapproval. “Not now. Can’t you see that I’m busy?”
“Please,” she said, fidgeting with the strap to her brown purse.
Before the Warriors could intervene, the Genie slapped the girl on the mouth.
“You know better than to interrupt when I’m making a sale!”
Tears welled in the girl’s eyes. “I can’t help it! I need a fix.”
“Work for it like everyone else.”
The girl glanced at Blade. “How about you, mister?”
“Me?” the Warrior responded.
“Yeah. I’ll get you off for twenty. Please. I need the bread.”
Blade studied her for several seconds. His features seemed to ripple in the glare of the streetlight, hardening for a fraction of a instant before inexplicably relaxing as he smiled at the girl. “I may be dense, but I’m not stupid.”
“What?” the girl asked.
“Nothing,” Blade said. He gazed at the man in white. “You’ve impressed me. I’d like to do business with you.”
The Genie snickered. “A man of class! What what will it be? Coke? Grass?”
“Grass will be fine.”
“How much do you want?”
“A handful should be enough.”
The Genie blinked twice, then cackled. “I like your style, my man. You can buy it by the joint, the lid, whatever. If you’ve got the green, you can buy a whole key.”
“We’ll take three keys.”
Hickok and Rikki looked at one another and Hickok shrugged.