Miami Burn (Titus Book 1) Read online

  Miami Burn

  By

  John D. Patten

  Copyright 2017 John D. Patten

  First Edition

  November 7, 2017

  Cover design:

  Predrag Marković

  @predra6art

  Editing:

  Gabrielle Drake

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  All characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  SPECIAL THANKS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SPECIAL REQUEST

  SPECIAL THANKS

  To Mom, as always, for all your love and support in everything.

  To William Miller (www.literaryrebel.com), author of the Jake Noble books Noble Man and Noble Vengeance, for your expert advice.

  To Derek Murphy (www.creativindie.com), author of Guerrilla Publishing, for sharing your vast knowledge about this industry and your infectious enthusiasm for helping authors to make a living selling books.

  To David “Woody” Woodworth for publishing my first detective story “The Lonely Hunter Part 1” in our high school newspaper thirty-one years ago. Oddly—but not oddly, come to think of it—Titus is a very similar character.

  To Robert B. Parker, Raymond Chandler, and John D. MacDonald for lighting the path.

  PROLOGUE

  I WALKED DOWN THE THREE STEPS TO THE TINY DUMPSTER area on the side of the bar and opened the gate. I flipped up the big plastic lid and tossed the trash bag in. A bundle of nerves fluttered in my neck. Sometimes it’s a twitch in my toes. Sometimes it’s a tightening in my shoulders. Tonight it’s nerves in the neck.

  They say there’s no such thing as extra-sensory perception. But any experienced cop or criminal knows we develop a sixth sense that warns us of danger. It can grow stale. Mine failed me the other day with Tommy Nero’s boys, but it was on tonight. Still sluggish, but on.

  I dove to my left as a crowbar slammed into the metal rim of the dumpster with a loud clang. The lid crashed down onto it as I aimed my left elbow at the spot where my instinct told me a head would be and threw all my weight backward into it.

  I heard the sickly cracking noise of bone against bone. I spun, my hand reaching for my gun.

  My sixth sense didn’t help me with the next one. Before I could get my gun out, a fist fell from the sky and smashed into the right side of my face, knocking my left shoulder hard into the dumpster. Another fist pounded my kidney from the side and then something struck the back of my neck and I was down on the ground. The blows came from multiple sources.

  My head on the wet pavement, I saw three sets of boot silhouettes in the dim streetlights walking toward me. One grew big and slammed into my nose. I heard the bone crack and felt a stream of hot wetness trickling down my face. Everything went dark.

  As I lay there wheezing, head spinning, stars popping, it occurred to me this is not what I came to Miami for.

  I came to this steaming hellhole full of vengeance to kill a blond man who wears five-thousand dollar suits and lives in a big bayfront house on West Lido Drive. One goal, one objective. Point, shoot, done.

  How the hell did I get side-tracked into this mess?

  It was my damned curiosity that got me into this trouble, that’s what it was.

  In fact, it all started right here on this very spot. Right in front of this dumpster. This was exactly where I stood three days ago, smoking a cigarette when I first saw Pam Hayes standing outside the bar as she pondered walking in . . .

  ONE

  I’D HAVE BET GOOD MONEY THAT THE MIDDLE-AGED woman in the coral dress would have walked right on past Cap’n Jack’s Seafood & Bar, but she paused at the entrance. I watched her as I smoked a cigarette in the fenced-off dumpster area where I had just unloaded the trash from the lunch shift. She took a tentative step toward the old oak door, and then another one back.

  She stood in the hot South Florida sun for a solid minute—not an easy feat in July—contemplating the ancient wood carving of a sea captain with a bushy white moustache smoking a pipe, like he might give her some advice. She was in her mid-fifties with a not un-pleasant face under stately reddish-brown hair with flecks of gray. Some makeup, not too much. Pearl necklace and earrings with a wedding ring. Elegant purse and shoes that perfectly matched the dress. I could almost smell the money.

  Three construction workers barreled out of the bar into the afternoon heat and crossed to the site across the street where yet another condo complex was going up. There isn’t much space left in “SoFi,” the trendy area of South Beach between 5th Street and South Pointe, but the developers won’t be happy until the sun is blotted out completely.

  The woman observed the dusty hard-hatted men like they were exhibits in a museum. She frowned, turned as if to leave, stopped, turned back again, and put her hand on the door handle. She lifted her shoulders, opened the door, and went inside.

  I inhaled some cancer and wondered why a middle-aged woman, who looked like she should be nibbling on lobster quiche at a fancy restaurant with a dainty little fork, would visit a haven of foul language and deep-fried immaturity such as Cap’n Jack’s Seafood & Bar in the middle of a Thursday afternoon. Our clientele tends to skew toward sailor-wannabes, bloated tourists in over-size shirts covered with little palm trees, desperate mid-lifers looking to score with other desperate mid-lifers, and a handful of beer-guzzling sports fans.

  I told myself to forget the woman in the coral dress. Curiosity only brings me trouble, and Lord knows I’ve had enough trouble the past couple of years.

  A volley of sweat trickled down my back, encouraging me to hurry up and finish my cigarette. This place is unfit for humans. Can’t figure out how people live in Miami year-round, seriously.

  I’m out of this outdoor sauna soon, I swear. I’m punching my own ticket once I complete the one task I came here for: kill the blond man in the five-thousand-dollar suits who lives in a bayfront house on West Lido Drive—the man responsible for Ariel’s death. She was all I ever truly loved in this vile world. Now, she and our unborn child are gone
because of him.

  The bar job is only to cover the rent for my one-room studio—more closet than apartment—in a grimy old lime-green building on Meridian Ave. Paulie, the owner of Cap’n Jack’s, needed a bartender who knows how to handle his more troublesome patrons, a task at which I suppose I excel. Plus, my longish hair, goatee, and muscular stature tend to make me ‘unemployable’ in most trendy SoBe boutiques.

  Cap’n Jack’s Seafood & Bar’s days are numbered, though. My bet is that Paulie will sell in a year or two when the next towering monstrosity will need to be built. I haven’t known him long, but my gut says he’ll take the money. Hell, I’d take the money. Not to mention the bar’s rugged nautical theme doesn’t quite fit in with SoFi’s organic juice bars, art galleries, and yoga studios.

  A bright orange 1976 Olds Cutlass with a white vinyl roof and gold rims on ridiculously oversized wheels stopped at the light. It rocked up and down on hydraulic extensions to a heavy bass beat. I half-expected it to tip over. The vibration was nerve-rattling, loud enough to make the wooden gate jump on its hinge and jiggle what’s left of my brain.

  I swear, one task and I’m gone. Point, shoot, done.

  So why haven’t I done it yet?

  As I pondered that question, the light changed, the Cutlass bopped away, and I finished my cigarette. I tossed it in the bin, opened the gate, went through, and then closed it behind me. I smiled at the wood carving of Cap’n Jack. He didn’t smile back. I stepped inside.

  I paused for a moment, allowing my eyes to readjust to the cool dimness. Three booths sat along the left-hand wall opposite six stools along the bar on the right. There was one lone table by the front window immediately to the right.

  The woman in the coral dress had sat at the table, as far as possible from the three afternoon regulars gathered around the Marlins game on the flat-screen TV.

  Jenny, the day bartender I was replacing for the night-shift, took the woman’s order. Jenny was substantial in all the right ways, her Daisy Duke outfit highlighting her perky attributes: red plaid shirt tied in front under large breasts to expose her perfectly tanned midriff, a sparkly belly-button ring over jean cutoffs that housed a delightful roundness over muscular girl thighs, and tanned calves all the way down to white cross-trainers that nobody noticed. Oh, and did I mention a red biker bandanna on top of her tied-back blonde hair? Yeah, she was difficult not to stare at.

  I reminded myself that she’s too young for me. Although, it’s hard not to wonder what it would be like to remove those jean cutoffs with my teeth.

  I took a deep breath, walked behind the bar, and grabbed some lemons and limes from the low refrigerator. Jenny came over and pressed her round right buttock to my left leg as she poured a soda water with ice. My eyes drifted down to the thin pink line of thong right above where her low jeans sat on her hips, the alluring crack just visible over a line of blue denim. Lucky denim. Then, she flicked her long blonde ponytail in my face with a big smile as she walked away to bring the woman her order. I caught a hint of lavender—or was it vanilla?

  I tried not to look, attempting a return to the planet Earth as I sliced some lemons. I even counted them, trying to center myself with deep breathing and numbers and other bullshit.

  It didn’t last long. I glanced over, only to see Jenny’s arched rear over the fringe of the cutoffs as she placed the soda water in front of the woman, who asked Jenny something. They both glanced over at me.

  The small crowd erupted in a cheer as the Marlins snapped a tie with two runs against Pittsburgh. Bottom of the fifth and the score was now 6-4.

  Marty from Jersey nodded at me from his perch at the end of the bar. I poured a tall Bud Lite and placed it in front of him on a napkin.

  “Did you see that play?” he said. “Fucking amazing.”

  “Yeah,” I lied as Jenny sidled up next to me.

  “Somebody wants to talk to you,” she said, linking the front of her right foot with my left ankle, drawing it up the back of my calf. I glanced down to see her strong bronze thigh. Such a lovely thigh. I cleared my throat and glanced over at the woman, who hadn’t even touched her soda water.

  “Not interested,” I said, finishing the lemons and moving on to the limes. “Too old for me.”

  Jenny leaned in, chin down, eyes up, and licked her lower lip. “You’re always saying I’m too young for you. Maybe granny over there is more your speed.”

  “I’m thirty-six, not sixty. And I’m not even sure you’re legal, darlin’.”

  “I’m twenty-one.”

  I threw her a dubious squint with my eyebrows raised.

  “Fine,” she said with a pout. “I’ll be twenty-one in December. God, you’re such a dork. But one of these days, you’re going to give in to me.” She moved her mouth to my ear to whisper, her hot breath on my face as heady whiffs of young girl drifted up my nostrils. “And I do mean into me.”

  I cleared my throat again.

  “Not going to happen,” I said. “So what’s with her?” I nodded in the direction of the woman as I concentrated on not severing a finger.

  “She was asking about you. She wants to ‘talk’ to you.” Jenny put air quotes around talk.

  “About what?”

  “Didn’t say. Just asked your name and if you were trustworthy.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I said you’re the biggest lying scumbag around. Oh, and that you’re a serial killer in your spare time.”

  “Oh, good. Thanks.”

  Jenny undid her apron and headed to the kitchen. “Okay, I’m punching out. It’s all yours. Try not to miss me.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said with a wink.

  I looked over at the woman, catching her looking at me. She visibly jumped, put her hand to her mouth, and turned her head to look out the window.

  I glanced around at my three customers. They all had beers and were fully ensconced with the game, so I walked over to the table, noticing she tensed up as I approached.

  “Hello,” I said. “Can I help you? Jenny said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “You are Titus?” she said in a shaky voice.

  “Last time I checked, yes.”

  She flushed and took a sip of her drink, her hand shaking.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a little nervous. My name is Pam Hayes. I was told you might be able to, uh, help me with a matter.”

  “Told? Who told you?”

  She hesitated, then looked me straight in the eyes for a good long beat before she said, “Clark Erwin.”

  My muscles tensed and my heart skipped a beat. I got a flash of Clark Erwin’s eyes under the harsh interrogation lights in a cold damp room in a place far away and now long ago. I could still feel the burst of joy when my fist smashed into his pudgy face. It cost me, but it was worth it.

  “Clark Erwin?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How do you know Clark Erwin?”

  “The FBI helped my husband and I with a matter and he was the agent in charge. Clark said you were from Boston, but you don’t have the accent.”

  “Spent the first twelve years of my life in Georgia.”

  “Oh.”

  She trembled. Tears welled up in her eyes. I handed her a napkin. She took it and wiped them.

  “Please forgive me,” she said, “I’m just not used to coming into places like these, nor talking to people like—I’m sorry, this is coming out wrong.”

  “People like me,” I said. “It’s okay. Not being used to talking to people like me is a worthy ambition in most circles.”

  She didn’t laugh. She was about to speak again, but jumped up, almost knocking over the chair.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she took a twenty-dollar bill from her purse and placed it on the table. She tucked the purse under her arm and darted to the door. “I just can’t do this. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Wait!” I said, but too late. She was outside.

  Jenny ha
d emerged from the kitchen, her bag slung over her shoulder. She was halfway across the room, headed to the door.

  “Bye, guys,” she said with a general wave to the room.

  “Bye, Jenny,” said the guys nearly in unison as they all turned away from the game to stare at her backside.

  “Hey,” I said, standing in front of her. “Cover for two minutes? I’ve got to catch that woman.”

  “Why?” Jenny said. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I just know I have to catch her before she drives off.”

  “I’m supposed to meet Matt in five minutes.”

  “I’ll be back in two.”

  She narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth, attempting to look mean.

  “Okay,” she said with a sly smile, “but it’ll cost you.”

  “Fine,” I said, tossed her my apron, and ran out.

  TWO

  I SAW PAM HAYES A BLOCK UP, ABOUT TO GET INTO THE back of a tan Mercedes. The door was held open by a tall man with gray hair in a tan suit and cap. I wondered if he and they came with the car.

  “Wait,” I said as I approached. “Mrs. Hayes, please.”

  She went pale, one foot in the car. The driver sneered at me.

  I raised my hands, smiled, and did my best to project warmth. Innocence. Trustworthiness. Totally harmless.

  “Mrs. Hayes,” I said, “I need to ask—why did Clark Erwin send you to me? Is it something to do with Ariel?”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Ariel?” she said. “No. I don’t know anything about any Ariel. It’s nothing to do with that. I’m sorry, I must go.”

  I debated with myself how to play this. What is Clark Erwin up to?

  “You’re in some kind of trouble,” I said. “You could use a little help.” She started to speak, but no words came out. “How about we just sit over there?” I motioned to the flimsy outdoor tables outside a convenience store. “Out in the open. Your driver can keep an eye on you.”