Flamingo Road Read online

  A closer view caused my hands to grip the steering wheel.

  Six or seven dogs growled at the Mini. Their lips curled back to reveal jagged, yellow teeth. With heads low and hackles up, they rushed the car, their chains rattling behind them until the slack caught against metal stakes, making them choke. Straining to get at me, they snapped their teeth. I doubted the county’s animal control came into a place like this.

  Two chocolate-skinned men with dreadlocks stood by a dilapidated double-wide, their malicious stares more intimidating than the fangs of the dogs.

  I should have rented a dented-up farm truck instead of driving a Yuppie mobile with out-of-state tags. Not a good place to ask for directions. I kept going.

  Two swamps, three jungles, and a half-dozen fenced-in shacks later I had a new appreciation for West Baltimore. After passing through a well-kept palm nursery, I saw a different street branching to the right. I had to stop the car and get out so I could squint up at the county street sign riddled with bullet holes. I made out the numerals 178.

  I got back in the car and checked my cell, relieved to see I had service in the jungle. I tried calling Patrick and Betsy. Both efforts went straight to voice mail. Spreading out the Rand McNally map, I traced the new street with my finger, hoping I might notice something more encouraging. The track still trailed into nothing.

  I angled the Mini into the lane, grateful for the car’s small size. The rutted dirt track was so narrow the average car couldn’t have turned around. Horses would fare better. I shifted the Mini into low gear and crept ahead, avoiding puddles of water with unknown depths.

  To my left the ground dropped away and turned into a swamp with cypress trees and other water-loving plants I didn’t know the names of. Something large and reptilian moved through the muck. To my right the ground was higher and lined by a heavy fence of chicken wire. Ducks, chickens, and geese scratched in the dirt. One white gander honked in alarm as the Mini crept past. Their dusty farmyard scent drifted into the car along with the overripe smell of stagnant water.

  About a hundred yards farther, another narrow track curve onto the higher ground on the right. A hand-painted sign read, FLAMINGO ROAD, PRIVATE PROPERTY, KEEP OUT.

  Had I arrived at Luis Valera’s?

  I rolled to a stop before a large hog pen someone had built on the corner. A sour stink rode the air outside the Mini. I flinched, my heart pounding as huge pigs squealed and stampeded the fence. They stopped short of the barrier, their snouts filthy. Coats of coarse, matted hair covered their skin. Large tusks curved and sprouted from their jaws. Feral hogs.

  They grunted and raked the ground with long, cloven hooves. I grabbed my gun. In addition to heavy wooden boards, the pen had solar-powered fence chargers with thick lines of electrified wire attached to the top of each board. Without it, I had no doubt the hogs would have trampled the fence and crushed my car like a tin can.

  I stared with disgust as smaller pigs fought over a goat carcass farther back in the pen. With their alpha buddies preoccupied, the lesser pigs tore frantically at the carcass until the big boys reversed, charged, and ran them off.

  Nice place you got here, Valera.

  I looked beyond the pen. Flamingo Road curved around a bend and disappeared.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I gasped. Zanin. “Damn it, you scared the hell out of me.” How had he snuck up on the side of me like that? I ran my eyes over him. Probably the camouflage clothing and the green and brown greasepaint smeared on his face

  “Keep your voice down,” he muttered. “Maybe put the gun down, too?”

  The hogs grunted, squealing as they made a rush toward Zanin, again stopping short of the electrified fence.

  I kept my gun trained on him. “Where’s my niece?”

  He looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s missing. Last seen at your offices. Ring a bell?”

  “Jilly? I sent her home.”

  “She didn’t make it.”

  Zanin leaned his neck to one side like he was trying to work a crick out. “Damn,” he said. “You thought she was with me?”

  “Is she?”

  “No. She’s a nice kid. I’d never bring her out here.”

  “Where’s your Tahoe?” I asked.

  “She’s not here,” he said, a sharp edge to his voice.

  I believed his innocence and lowered my gun, but not my theory. “It would be just like her to stow away in your SUV. At least that’s what I would have done when I was her age.”

  Something that was almost a grin brushed his lips before apprehension chased it away. “We can’t stay here. Pigs are like watchdogs. If they don’t shut up, someone will come. These people wouldn’t think twice about killing us and using the pigs for disposal. They eat everything, even the bones.”

  I shuddered.

  “Drive down 178th Street.” He gestured in the direction I’d been heading. “Go about a half mile, and look for an abandoned barn on your right. The ground’s solid, you can drive behind the barn. You’ll see my Tahoe. I’ll meet you there.”

  He jogged a short distance away on Flamingo Road and melted into the heavy brush.

  * * *

  I put the Mini in gear and eased away from Flamingo Road and the horror hogs. They gave a few good-bye squeals, probably disappointed to see me go. A short way down the road, I passed a Latino man leading a burro loaded with broad leaves hacked from some kind of plant. The burro ignored me. The man sent a long suspicious stare, and I understood why Zanin had chosen to trek unseen through the brush.

  After a stretch dense with plants and pines, the view opened and I spotted the dilapidated barn and drove across a weedy field of Bermuda grass. When I reached the wooden structure, I drove behind it, and pulled up next to Zanin’s Tahoe where he’d left it parallel to the road. I appeared to have arrived first. He must still be creeping through the tangled vegetation.

  I got out, walked to the SUV, and leaned in close to the back of the vehicle, cupping my hands around my eyes to see through the darkened glass. A tarp covered most of the contents of the rear compartment. A few things were visible—some jugs of water, a horse lead, and a box of vet wrap, gauze, ointments, a big bottle of Vetericyn wound spray, and a can of bug repellent.

  I stared at the tarp. Something about the hump it formed behind the backseat was familiar. The cloth rose up and down ever so gently.

  “Jilly, I know you’re in there.” I wrapped my knuckles on the window. “Jilly!”

  She gave it up and pushed the tarp away from her head, her expression defiant. I tried the passenger’s door. Locked. Even though it was only in the mid-seventies, she was lucky for the cloud cover or she would have roasted in that black Tahoe.

  “Open the door,” I said.

  She glared at me and didn’t move. Just then the screen of bushes and pines stirred nearby and Zanin slipped into the open. I scowled at him and pointed at the Tahoe. He walked quickly toward me.

  “You’ve got a hitchhiker,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Jilly is in your SUV. You want to unlock the doors and get her out?”

  The whining sound of a rapidly approaching engine made us turn to the road. The vehicle wasn’t in sight yet.

  “Jilly, cover back up!” I yelled.

  Zanin ran at me, grabbed my shoulders, and pushed me to the ground. “Go with me on this,” he said, pinning my shoulders to the grass and dirt, lowering his body to mine, covering my mouth with his. His weight made my gun press hard into the small of my back.

  I knew what he was doing and why, but the instinct to fight him off was too strong. As I struggled, a Jeep careened off the road and bore down on us.

  “Shit,” Zanin said. “Fia, slap me.”

  I obliged, smacking him as hard as I could. He laughed, caught my hands, and pushed me back to the ground.

  The Jeep stopped and two men got out who might have been Haitian, African, or mixed Latino. They b
oth had rifles.

  Zanin sat up and rolled off of me. “Whas the problem, amigos?” he asked, slurring his speech as if he’d had too many beers.

  One of the men moved closer, towering over us. “Get up.”

  He must be the one in charge. A leather thong circled his neck. A beaded amulet with a tiny black and ivory skull hung from it. The man pulled his lips back in a distorted smile. His front teeth were missing and I could smell a sour odor coming off him.

  Zanin grinned. “Hey man, can’t a guy have some alone time with his woman?”

  “Not on our property. You should do la chica at home.”

  “Dude, her husband probably wouldn’t like that. Know what I’m sayin’?” Zanin winked.

  “You full of shit, man,” the guy with the skull around his neck said. “You got that camouflage shit on your face!”

  “What can I tell you, man. The bitch likes it kinky.” Zanin’s smirk was so lewd, I smacked him again.

  “You bitch!” He pushed me back on the ground and dropped his weight on me. His eyes and mouth found mine, so did an electrical connection. Now I had a gun and an erection pressing against me.

  Skull Man swung the barrel of his rifle against Zanin. “Escucha! I told you to get up.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Zanin said, still slurring like he was hammered, and rubbing his side where the gun had struck him. So low I could barely hear, he said, “Santerias.” He rolled off me.

  The only thing I knew about Santerias was that they sacrificed animals for their religious ceremonies and that was enough.

  “I like your woman,” Skull Man said, his lips stretching to a grin. “My boss say, ‘If she like pig so much, she meet them.’ But,” he said, leering at me, “I think I meet her first. Then we go to see my boss and she meet pig.”

  The other man laughed wildly like a hyena. He stepped closer. He wore loose burlap pants and no shirt. His feet were bare. Someone had painted white symbols on his chest.

  I truly did not like the way this was going.

  Zanin raised himself onto his knees, grabbing my wrists. “Get up, baby.” He slid me roughly along the ground toward him. A rock, a stick, or something dislodged the Walther from my waistband.

  The guy with the symbols yelled, “Pistola!”

  In slow motion, I watched him flip his rifle so he held it by the barrel. He slammed the butt into Zanin’s head. Skull Man kicked my gun away just as my fingers touched it.

  Zanin appeared unconscious. Skull Man laughed, picked up my Walther and shoved it into his waistband before jerking me roughly to my feet.

  I came up fast, smashed my palm into his nose, used the momentum to twist away and then slammed an elbow back into his neck. He went down choking, but the man with the painted symbols had his rifle pointed at my chest. He did his hideous hyena chuckle again.

  In my peripheral vision I saw something creep from behind the Tahoe. I held up open palms to the man holding the rifle. “I have money. I will pay you.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “Hey, dick face,” Jilly said from behind him.

  The guy turned. She sprayed his face with bug spray. She hit the side of his head with the can and took the rifle.

  Skull Man was still on the ground, so I rushed forward, kicked his windpipe, and jerked my Walther from his waistband. Then I smacked his head with the gun and knocked his lights out.

  I glanced at Jilly. We were both shaking.

  “You,” I said to the shirtless Santeria, “help me get him into the SUV.” I pointed at Zanin, really glad to see him trying to sit up. “Now,” I snapped at the guy. “Jilly, carry those rifles.” She did and with the reluctant help of Hyena, we managed to get Zanin into the backseat of the Tahoe.

  “Where are your keys?” I asked Zanin.

  “Pocket.” He fumbled at his jeans. I brushed his hand away and snatched up a set of keys.

  “Fia,” Jilly said, “give me your keys.”

  “You can’t drive.”

  She looked at me like I was as stupid as a stick. “Of course I can drive. You can’t leave your car here!”

  She had a point. I gave her my keys.

  Stupid as a stick Fia McKee contributes to the delinquency of minors.

  I got behind the wheel of the SUV and cranked the engine. Jilly ran to the Mini and threw both rifles inside. As the Hyena man gazed at her, I could feel the weight of his malevolence. Jilly gave him the finger and fired up the Mini.

  We gunned the vehicles across the field and fled for the distant highway.

  11

  We sat at the orange-tiled table in Patrick’s kitchen. The four of us ate Chinese food from cardboard cartons delivered by a man from Wu Fong’s Chinese Emporium. Steam and the smell of garlic rose from my plate as I ladled another serving of shrimp and broccoli onto fried rice.

  When Zanin pushed a carton toward me, I stared at him. “I can’t believe you’re eating pork.”

  “Me, either.”

  “Why wouldn’t he eat pork?” Jilly asked.

  “You didn’t see the pigs.” I pushed the offending carton back at Zanin.

  Patrick and Jilly sat at opposite ends of the table, carefully not speaking to each other, avoiding another eruption of angry words.

  When we’d rolled in the driveway and Patrick had seen Jilly driving my car, he’d exploded. It had only gotten worse when Zanin crawled out of the Tahoe pressing his hand to the lump that oozed blood from his scalp.

  I rubbed at my forehead, hoping to ease the ache that pounded behind my eyes. Probably nothing compared to what Zanin must be suffering. Jilly had given him a Ziploc bag of ice, and he was pressing it against the lump on his head.

  “You really should go to the ER,” I said. “You were out cold.”

  “I’m fine.” He concentrated on forking up another bite of sweet and sour pork.

  “You don’t look fine,” Jilly said.

  Patrick set his water glass down with a bang. “I can’t believe you people won’t call the police.”

  I shook my head. “We’ve been over this. Do you really want warrants for assault with a deadly weapon issued on Jilly and me? And trespassing? Because that’s just what those guys will have a magistrate do if we don’t leave them alone.”

  “She’s right,” Zanin said. “People like Valera know how to play the system. He’s probably got a stable of criminal defense attorneys.”

  Patrick curled his lip with disdain. “So you’re just going to let his people beat you up?”

  Jilly eyes had been darting back and forth, following the verbal jousting match. She raced in. “Dad, you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  I shot her a warning glance, but she was already in full stride.

  “I creamed one guy’s head with a can, and Fia beat the shit out of the other one!”

  “Damn it, Jilly. Do not use that language in this house.”

  She glared at her father. “You just said ‘damn it.’”

  “That’s enough,” Patrick roared. He glared at me. “My daughter hit one of these guys? We have to call the police. They’ll come after her!”

  “No,” I said, “they won’t. They have Zanin’s license number and my Maryland tags. No direct lead to this house.”

  “They’ll come after me,” Zanin said.

  At least Jilly hadn’t metioned that I’d almost been raped and fed to feral pigs. I rolled my can of cold Coke back and forth across my forehead and took a breath before my next thrust.

  “Listen to me, Patrick. If you file a warrant, these people will know who Jilly is and where she lives. They’ll file a warrant for assault with a deadly weapon.”

  “It was only a can of bug spray,” Jilly said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I explained. “A can of bug spray is a deadly weapon. Under the law it doesn’t have to be a gun or a knife, it can be anything that can be used to kill someone.” I rubbed my neck. The knots back there were giving birth to baby knots.

  Patrick stood
up, “You are so wrong. I’m calling the police right—”

  “Here’s how it works!” I shouted. “They will file a warrant against Jilly. They’ll tail her so they know where she is. On a Friday afternoon they will tell the deputies where to find her, remind them of the outstanding warrant, and make sure she is picked up. I see this happen all the time.”

  Patrick started to protest, and I held up my hand. Time to go for the jugular. “How do you know Valera doesn’t have a sheriff in his pocket? They pick her up on a Friday afternoon. She’ll be held over in jail until an arraignment on Monday. You want to risk that?”

  Patrick sat down, elbows on the table, his head in his hands.

  “She’s right,” Zanin said. “Sometimes the law is the perpetrator’s best friend.”

  “Well, that’s just stupid,” Jilly said.

  “Yeah,” I said, “but that’s the way it is.”

  Apparently the subject had been beaten to death. Except for the scraping of forks on stoneware plates, the room was silent as we scooped up the last bites of Chinese food.

  Zanin pushed his chair back and eased himself upright. “Patrick, thanks for the meal.”

  “Sorry I yelled at everyone,” Patrick said, looking at if he meant it. “I’m just so worried.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” Jilly gave him a tentative smile.

  Standing, Patrick took the three steps between him and Jilly and rested his hand on her shoulder. He glanced at Zanin and me. “Thanks for getting her back here safely.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I walked Zanin out and we stood under the portico for a moment. The earlier clouds had developed into a hard rain and the Florida breeze was wet and chilly.

  “You sure you can drive?” I asked, noticing he was still pressing his bag of melting ice to his head.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse, but I’m sorry Jilly got mixed up in this.”

  “She’ll be okay,” I said. “McKees are tough.”

  “That they are.”

  His stare lingered so long I could feel heat flush my cheeks.

  “We’re not finished with Valera yet,” he said.

  “No, we’re not.”

  “Keep in touch, Fia.” He dashed through the rain, fired up the Tahoe, and left.