No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (29 page)

“
All right,” Michael said. “$500 million.”

Big Stan laughed. “And your friend’s alive?”

“
Very much so.”

“
Then he ain’t dealing with the Mario Deti I know.” Big Stan took another drink. “The mob biz isn’t what it used to be and $500 million. ...” Big Stan shook his head. “Forget about it.”

“
So you’re saying my friend doesn’t owe $500 million.”

“
First, I’m saying Mario Deti doesn’t have $500 frickin’ million for your friend to owe him to begin with.” Big Stan pointed at Michael. “Maybe fifty or a hundred million, at the peak, but he’s got feds all over him now, people photographing and recording his every move. Think about it.”

“
Could be laundered.” Michael tested him.

“
Could be.” He rolled his bloodshot eyes toward the ceiling again, continuing the search. “Could be a lot of things. But if it’s true, your friend’s dead.” Big Stan ran his hand along his throat. “Deti doesn’t fuck around. Even at his age, he doesn’t fuck around.”

“
My friend, he’s had his apartment trashed, threatening cards – ”

“
Cards?” Big Stan smiled and shook his head. “Greeting cards? The mob doesn’t go around trashing apartments and sending spooky messages via Hallmark. They throw you in the back of a car, hook a couple electrical cords up to your nuts, and go until you are either dead or give them what they want.”

Big Stan finished his beer.

“
The toughest criminal to catch is the one who just does it,” Big Stan said. “When you just do it, there’s nothing there to investigate. Screwing around with this stuff you're talkin’ about creates a trail. Deti is still out roaming the streets of our fair city because he’s not that stupid. Your friend may be in serious shit, but it ain’t with Mario Deti. I’d bet my left nut.”

Big Stan got up from the table and stumbled back to the bathroom. He opened the small door, and turned toward Michael.

“
You watch too many television shows,” he said, disappearing into the tiny Airstream bathroom. “Beware the frickin’ cards,” he shouted, and then laughed.

Michael decided it was time to go.

“
I’m heading out.” Michael slid away from the table, and then stood up.

“
Hold on.” The toilet flushed, and Big Stan emerged from the bathroom. He looked at Michael and half-smiled. “Okay.” He raised both hands in the air. “Big Stan now provides you his blessing and you may now leave.”

He sat down on the edge of his bed, and then kicked off his cowboy boots and laid back.

“
You have a real nice trailer,” Michael said. “Thanks for the drinks.”

“
No.” Big Stan closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

As Michael reached the door, Big Stan’s eyes opened wide and he sat straight up.

“
I know where I’ve seen you.”

Michael stopped cold, and looked back.

Big Stan pointed at him.

“
The Post’s website.” He stabbed his finger at him again. “Yesterday,” he nodded. “You’re the. ...” Big Stan’s eyes fluttered, as Michael went in and out of focus. “The lawyer.” He smiled and lay back down, again. “I never do forget a face. Jesus H. Jehosephat, I’m good.”

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

There was little in life as wonderful as a cool shower courtesy of Hut No. 7 after a day of playing in the Caribbean and a night of drinking Coronas with some weird old man at the Sunset’s bar. Michael let the water roll off his head and down his back. He thought about Big Stan and whether he was right about Deti. If Deti wasn't after him, then who?

Michael shut off the water, and stepped out of the stall and into the hut’s small bathroom. He toweled off, located a pair of boxers and slipped them on.

He finished the remainder of his nighttime routine, and walked out of the bathroom and over toward the bed. It was then that he noticed that the room smelled like cherry tobacco. Every hair on his neck stood on end, and his heart rate spiked. The Professor had found him.

Michael was ready for the attack. He turned. His arms out, fists clinched, knowing that this was it.

Then the room lit up. Night became day as bright white light streamed through the windows from the outside.

“
Stop, Senor Collins. Put your hands in the air.” The deep voice boomed over a bullhorn from outside. Confused, Michael raised his hands up in the air as the commands continued. He had no place to run. “Keep your hands where we can see them, Senor Collins. You are under arrest.”

Another voice just outside the door said, “You got the wrong guy. I’m not Michael Collins.”

It was the Professor.

“
I told you, I’m not Michael Collins.”

Still unsure, Michael slowly put his hands down and crept toward the window. With the tips of his fingers, he raised the blind an inch and looked outside.

Hut No. 7 was surrounded by five Mexican police cars, each with their headlights on high. The space was bathed in light. A dozen men stood with their guns drawn. They were pointed at the Professor, just three feet in front of the hut’s door.

“
I’m telling you that this is a mistake.” The Professor’s eyes darted from side to side as four men approached and placed him in handcuffs. “My name is Dwight Keiffer. I have my papers in my back pocket. You can take a look for yourself.”

The officers led the Professor over to the man with the bullhorn, who was presumably the Police captain. The captain set the bullhorn down on the hood of the car, and then he proceeded to pat down the Professor.

The captain started near the Professor’s ankles and worked his way up one leg and down the other. Then, he felt around the waist of the Professor’s windbreaker, pausing, and then feeling the area around the pocket.

“
Gun?”

The captain reached into the jacket’s front pocket and removed a Glock pistol. The other police officers started to talk among themselves. The captain set the gun down on the hood of the car next to the bullhorn, and reached into the Professor’s back pocket.

He removed the passport and wallet, and read the documents silently to himself. The captain turned toward the crowd that had formed behind the police cars, and called for Sammy Alvarez to come forward.

Sammy emerged. He walked up to the police captain, with Luise just a few steps behind. In Spanish, the captain asked Sammy if the man standing before him in handcuffs was Michael Collins.

Sammy Alvarez hesitated, and then nodded. “
Si
.”

“
That’s him,” added Luise.

“
Bueno
.”

The Police captain ordered the officers to take “Senor
Collins” back to the police station while he called the embassy in Mexico City.

The Professor protested as he was hustled toward the waiting police car.

“
This is ridiculous.” The Professor started to resist, but the officers pushed him hard into the back seat. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

The car door slammed shut, and one by one, the motorcade of police turned and drove away from the Sunset as the crowd of tourists dispersed.

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

Dwight K
e
ieffer. Michael wrote the Professor’s name down on the back page of one of his paperback novels, and then he shoved the book into his green knapsack. He ran to the bathroom, gathered up his toiletries and put them in the bag. Then he went back into the room and grabbed his clothes off the floor.

Michael stuffed the clothes inside, and took the picture of his revolutionary namesake off of the nightstand and packed it away.

“
That’s it.” Michael swung the knapsack over his shoulder. “How long do you think we have until they figure out they have the wrong guy?”

“
At least two hours,” Sammy said. “They have to take him to the police station. That’s about forty-five minutes, and then the captain isn’t going to want to admit that he arrested the wrong man, so more back and forth.”

“
Okay.” Michael took a breath, taking a second to think. They would be looking for him at the Cancun airport, so that was out. He needed a way to get across the border without going through customs. “How long to the border by car?”

“
You don’t want to do that.” Luise shook her head. “
Policia
love stopping tourists and hustling a bribe.”

“
All right.” Michael thought for another second, running through his options. There was always the bus, but he would stand out, never blend, and there weren’t any train connections in this part of Mexico. “What about the airport at Playa del Carmen?”

“
Never been there,” Sammy said, “but it’s all private airplanes, corporate jets.”

“
Perfect.” Michael started walking toward the door. “Can one of you take me?”

“
I can.” Luise smiled.

“
No.” Sammy put his hand on his niece’s shoulder, not liking her intentions. “I’ll take him. You stay here and watch things until I get back.”

“
Fine,” Luise said with a pout. Then the three of them walked out the door. Luise walked up toward the Sunset’s bar and office, and Sammy and Michael walked down toward Sammy’s truck.

“
It’s the white F-10.” Sammy pointed at the Ford pickup truck parked next to a shed a hundred yards off the main road. Michael climbed in the passenger side, and Sammy got behind the wheel and cranked the engine over. A couple of tries later, the engine started and they were on their way.

“
Airport has to be closed at this hour.” Michael looked at the clock on the truck’s dashboard. “Maybe we can find a hotel where I can crash until morning.”

“
Sounds good.” Sammy put the truck into reverse. “It’d be best if I left you anyway, in case the police come back.”

“
What are you going to say?”

“
That it was late and I was drunk.” Sammy turned the wheel, and shifted the truck into high gear.

“
But you aren’t.”

“
I will be.” Sammy laughed. “As Senor Kermit says, ‘By the time they come back, I’ll be one very drunk
muchacho
.’ ”

CHAPTER FIFTY NINE

Michael found a vacant room in a rundown cinderblock motel across the road from Playa del Carmen’s private airport. He paid cash for the room, signed nothing, and found himself in a lumpy bed watching the digital numbers on the nightstand clock gradually increase from 4:32 to 9:15. A count occasionally disrupted by moments of sleep.

He got up when he heard the first jet fly thirty feet over his motel room. It was hard to miss. The windows rattled, and the bed shook. Either the airport was open or a jet just crashed into the hotel’s parking lot.

Michael grabbed his green knapsack and walked out of the hotel room into the morning light. He crossed the street, and then went through a small parking lot filled with limousines and imported vehicles, all black and spotless, and then finally into the airport’s small terminal.

As soon as the glass doors slid open, a man in a white linen suit and tie came toward Michael. By the way he was dressed and the gun strapped to his hip, it was clear that the man was both security and concierge.  “May I help you, senor?”

“
Yes.” Michael reached into his pocket and retrieved two hundred dollars. “I’m looking for a flight.” He passed the money. “Any assistance you could provide would be appreciated.”

“
Of course.” The suited man casually placed the money in his pocket. “A private flight?”

“
Very.”

“
Simply wait in our lounge and I can see if there are any pilots available.”

As directed, Michael walked through the marble entryway to a plush lounge. Thick red carpet covered both the floor and walls. The room was furnished with egg-shaped chairs and oversized ottomans upholstered in white leather, which surrounded a series of black onyx tables.

The '70s had returned, Michael thought, and unfortunately it appeared to be on purpose.

He picked up a copy of the Economist magazine off of the table, sat down, and began flipping through the articles. Michael found one that caught his interest. An article by Nobel-prize winner Joseph Stiglitz related to the creation of an international bankruptcy tribunal for third-world countries.

“
Excuse me, senor.”

Michael looked up. The concierge/security guard was standing with a squat man in a red jacket and pilot’s hat.

“
I believe Senor Chavarro will be able to assist you.”

The pilot sat down across from Michael.

“
I was told that you were seeking a private flight.”