Two Jakes
TWO JAKES
Two complete novels featuring private
investigator Jake Scarne
By
Lawrence De Maria
Copyright © 2012 by Lawrence De Maria
All rights reserved, including the right
to reproduce this
book or portions thereof in any form
whatsoever.
For information, email
[email protected]
.
This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead,
events or locales is entirely
coincidental.
Editorial Services provided by Nancy
Kreisler
Published by St. Austin’s Press
(305-409-0900
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305-409-0900
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)
Book I
Copyright © 2011 by Lawrence De Maria
Book II
Copyright © 2012 by Lawrence De Maria
Also by Lawrence De Maria
The Alton Rhode Mystery Series
CAPRIATI’S BLOOD
(2012)
LAURA LEE
(Summer, 2012)
To
Patti
, without whose love, support
and faith this book
– and others –
would not have been possible
Introduction
While
both
Sound of Blood
and
Madman’s Thirst
can be enjoyed
independently as “stand-alones,” I believe the reader will get the most out of
the experience by taking them in order: First,
Blood
(hmmm, I wonder if that title is taken
-- sounds familiar); then,
MADMAN’S
.
There
are recurring characters other than Jake Scarne (spoiler alert! Jake makes it
to the second book – but don’t get your hopes up for some of the other
players). Moreover, there are references in the second book to events occurring
in the first, though none so crucial as to impact the narrative.
Of
course, as the author, I hope that anyone who read
MADMAN’S
first
(presumably before this two-book edition came out) will be intrigued enough to
search out
BLOOD
.
As
always, reader input is invaluable to an author. So, please feel free to email
me at
[email protected]
and/or visit my
website,
http://www.lawrencedemaria.com/
to let me know what you think. Remember to reference the book, or books, in the
subject line so the comments survive my spam filter (which doesn’t work all
that well, anyway -- but let’s not give it a chance).
A Jake Scarne Thriller
By Lawrence De Maria
CHAPTER
1 – DANGEROUS MARINE ORGANISMS
“Can’t
we shoot him?”
“What?”
“Just
once, let’s just shoot someone,” Keitel shouted in frustration, as well as to
be heard over the growling engine. “Or strangle him.”
The
outboard was the proximate source of his anger.
“How
about a knife? I’m wonderful with a knife. Good with bombs, too. We could blow
up his ridiculous car.” He leaned precariously over the stern to untangle the
cast net from the cowling, where it threatened to foul a propeller. “Somebody
should.” The net came loose suddenly and Keitel fell hard on his rump. His
already abused coccyx throbbed with a pain reminiscent of bad landings in his
paratroop days. He let out a string of curses in German, a sure sign of rage.
“Why must everything be such a production?”
The
24-foot Dusky was pitching badly in the shallows off Sunny Isles beach. The man
at the wheel glanced toward the shore 100 feet away. An old woman shooing
children out of the water gave him the fish eye. Jesús Garza feared few things.
A Cuban abuela protecting her brood was one. They didn’t need more problems. He
and Christian were behind schedule; the light was going. So while he enjoyed
Keitel’s discomfort immensely, Garza gently throttled back the small sport
fishing boat and gave the woman a friendly wave. Unmollified, she continued to
direct a baleful glare at him. Christ, he thought, she could stop global
warming with that look.
“This
whole plan is the product of a deranged mind,” Keitel groused. He was angrily
refolding the dripping net. “Fucking
Pirates of the Caribbean!
”
“Watch
your language. The wind is blowing toward shore. The children may hear you.
Might I suggest you try hitting the water? There is an awful lot of it and we
already have an engine.”
“The
hell with the children,” Keitel said. But he lowered his voice.
Garza
grinned broadly as his partner struggled with his footing. Shorter than his
lean, angular friend, with a welterweight’s balance and build, he had sturdy
sea legs. Keitel, stubbornly ignoring the offer of a seat cushion, had taken
the brunt of the bouncy ride up from the Key Biscayne marina. Cruising back and
forth along Miami Beach for two hours in heavy chop before finding a patch of
the slimy buggers had been no picnic either, Garza knew. They should have opted
for the bigger Dusky with its twin 225 Evinrudes. He laughed. Christian could
catch a bigger motor.
“I’m
glad you find all this humorous,” Keitel said.
“You’re
bunching it too tightly. Remember the video.”
Both
men had watched a homemade Internet tutorial on how to throw a cast net. The
redneck fisherman in the video had a belly the size of a beluga whale but
looked like Nureyev when throwing the net.
“It’s
not that easy, you idiot,” Keitel snarled. “The expert fisherman! Salt water in
your veins. You try it.” He prided himself in his ability to hit whatever he
aimed at. Missing the Atlantic Ocean was inconceivable.
“Then
who would handle the boat? If you were up here, we’d be in Mindel’s parking
lot. No, today you are first mate, and barely passable at that.”
“Eat
a turd. Mindel’s isn’t even there anymore. He sold to a developer.”
“Pity.
I was quite fond of the pastrami and the pickle plate.”
“And
I’m fond of my spine.” Water splashed over the gunwale and Keitel used a
muscled forearm to brush blonde hair out of his eyes. “Did you have to hit
every damn wave on the way here?”
***
If
folded properly – and loosely – across one arm and thrown with a whirling
bodily motion, a cast net, lined with dozens of small lead balls, opens into a
circle before hitting the water. A good cast has a lot in common with a golf
swing. Less effort typically produces better results. A hard toss usually leads
to a clumped net. The thick gloves didn’t help. They caught in the webbing.
Most of Keitel’s casts hadn’t even cleared the boat. The most recent one did
manage to clear the stern but didn’t quite get past the engine.
But
he finally got the hang of it and even managed to impart some savoir faire to
the endeavor. Gradually his mood improved. After one ballet-like cast, he bowed
to Garza’s applause. The eighth toss was particularly fruitful and he did a
count after adding the contents to the live well.
“Ten
or eleven, I think. It’s hard to be sure. Enough?”
“For
a Cape Buffalo. Dump the net and wash your gloves. Keep them on.”
Garza
waited until Keitel sat – this time on two cushions, he noted – and opened the
throttle, heading south past Bal Harbour and Surfside. A few minutes later he
slowed near the familiar high rise and reached for his binoculars.
“There
he is,” he said, cutting the engine just off a sandbar at 63
rd
Street.
As
Keitel dropped anchor he glanced toward shore, where a surfcaster wading
knee-deep in the water was expertly flicking his bait just short of a sandbar.
The setting sun was blocked by the condo building and this section of beach was
in deep shade. The few people still stretched out on blankets would soon
depart. A bronzed old man with a metal detector scoured the sand nearby, his
rhythmic sweeps regular as a metronome. Garza went to the stern, opened a
Styrofoam cooler and pulled out a large white plastic bag. He leaned over the
side and partially filled the bag with seawater. After testing the bag’s
strength and integrity by jouncing it several times, he reached in the cooler
for a long-handled kitchen strainer and a pair of gloves. Then he peered into
the well.
“What
do you think? Intelligent design or evolution? I can argue either.”
“I’m
sure you could,” Keitel said. “You always do. As if it matters.”
“Christian,
I’m always amazed at your lack of intellectual curiosity. Are you not
interested in the wonders of creation and the universe we inhabit? You hail
from a country that produced Einstein for God’s sake.”
“My
universe is centered on my throbbing ass. And Einstein was a Jew.”
“Do
I detect anti-Semitism in that remark? I’m shocked.”
“I’m
no anti-Semite. You know I worked with the Mossad against the Syrians. That’s
how I met Lev. I know I told you about him.”
Indeed
he had, Garza thought, with the usual twinge of jealousy. He was sorry he
brought up the damn subject at all. Keitel never missed a chance to mention his
one-time Israeli commando boyfriend. The Israeli Defense Force was very open-
minded. It didn’t matter if you enjoyed screwing camels, as long as you also
enjoyed killing Arabs.
“Gave
me a commendation,” Keitel continued. He saw the expression on Garza’s face. “I
know. Jews giving German soldiers medals. Crazy. Hitler was a fool. Should have
made peace with the Jews instead of driving them into the hands of his enemies.
The Nazis would have gotten the bomb. The world would be speaking German. Like
all fanatics, he had limited vision.”
“Thank
God. German is too difficult a language. But I am impressed with your
reasoning. I may have to reevaluate my opinion of you.”
“Reevaluate
my dick, and impress me with your silence. Let’s do this.”
“All
right, if you insist. Hold the bag open. Wide open.”
***
A
rare December gale, far at sea, was roiling the shelf water. Breakers crashed
over sand bars 30 yards out. By now the surfcaster could hear more than see
them. But the phosphorescent foam told him they were substantial. So did the
smell. The agitated water released the sea’s essence, an intoxicating mixture
of brine, minerals, seaweed, marine life – and death. A wave swelled up to the
fisherman’s waist. There was a splash of spray and the taste of salty spindrift
on his lips. Something stuck to his cheek and his heart fluttered. A tendril
came away in his hand. But it was all right; it was green. The wind-driven surf
was pushing seaweed and flotsam toward land. By morning the beach would be rife
with coral, sponges and sea fans, which local shore rats would sell to tourists
for beer and butt money. From a distance the gunk piled at the tide line would
look like a Normandy hedgerow.
The
on-shore wind also brought the danger of the beautiful but toxic Portuguese
Men-of-War. The distinctive dark blue “sail” that gave the little jellyfish
their name caught the breeze and sent them toward land. At certain times of the
year – this was one of them – hundreds of Men-of-War would be left high and dry
by the receding tide. Their tentacles remained vital even when drying out. The
little “bluebottles” attracted the curious, particularly children, and the
fisherman always made a point of warning them.
He
hadn’t really thought the strand on his face was a tentacle but the stab of
fear was instinctive. Weeks earlier, also while wading, his right calf had
exploded in pain, as if slashed with a hot razor. The agony shot to his groin;
he thought he was in real trouble. After scraping the four-inch tentacle off
his leg with sand and seawater, he limped back to his apartment and washed the
affected area with vinegar, one of several home remedies purported to
neutralize jellyfish venom. (Another is urine, but pissing on demand was never
one of his strong suits.) The throbbing remained intense and he finally went to
Flagler General.
“The
groin pain just radiated up a nerve,” the emergency room doctor told him after
giving him a shot. “Allergic reactions to jellyfish are rare. Your throat would
swell and you’d have trouble breathing. The real danger is cardiac arrest
caused by shock when a huge dose of toxin hits near the heart or head. But one
bluebottle isn’t going to do it. A box jellyfish, maybe, but this isn’t
Australia. Of course, now that you’ve been sensitized, you’re next reaction
might be different.”
With
that warning in mind, before fishing he looked to see if the aptly named blue
“Dangerous Marine Organisms” flags were flying from the rescue shacks and kept
a cell phone handy in his bucket. This wasn’t South Beach; after dark he would
be alone. Half the condos were vacant, owned by now-desperate speculators.
Until the sun set, his main company had been the ubiquitous sandpipers pecking
like typists on the keyboard of the shore and brown pelicans skimming the
waves. There seemed to be more pelicans than usual. The fisherman wondered if
some of them were refugees from the oil spill in the Gulf that had somehow
traversed the Florida peninsula, or had been cleaned in the Panhandle and
relocated. Then again, the mind saw what it wanted to see. Everyone in the
country had pelicans on the brain. But he would check it out. Could be a great
story.
As
it darkened, all the birds flew off to wherever birds go at night. The only
humans around were a couple of diehard bathers and an old man with a metal
detector who, as he passed the fisherman, gave him a “me neither” shrug. There
were also two men on a fishing boat just past the bars. Curious. Most small
craft anchored further out, in calmer water. A man at the wheel swept the
beachfront with binoculars, probably looking at a few skimpily clad women on
the pool decks of nearby hotels.
***
The
prospector and bathers were gone and the surfcaster could no longer see the
boat. He didn’t mind. New-found anonymity and Florida’s milder climate provided
a solitude he’d craved in New York. He religiously broke up his work week by
fishing this stretch of beach every Wednesday. He’d even delayed his research
trip to Antigua by a day so as not to break his routine.
A
routine that had not gone unnoticed.
***
What
we do with a drunken sailor?
What
we do with a drunken sailor, early in the morning?
“Jesus,
Jesús, not only can’t you sing,” an exasperated Keitel said as he lifted the
plastic bag from the live well, “but the words are wrong.”
Garza
was undeterred by the criticism of his sea chantey.
“Cuban
version. And look who’s the music expert,” he said. “The only song you know is
Deutschland
über alles
.”
Keitel
laughed and gave the bag a few hard shakes to test its integrity.
“It
will hold. Are you sure it’s dark enough?”
“Yes.
You can see nothing from the buildings. Same moon as last night.”
“I’ll
do it if you want,” Keitel said quietly. “I’m the better swimmer.”
Garza
was touched. Christian was always full of surprises.
“Your
heart isn’t in it. And as you ungraciously reminded me, this is my lunatic
idea. But I appreciate the gesture.”
Slipping
over the side, Garza found that he could almost stand. Keitel reached over the
gunwale and handed him the tightly-tied plastic bag, holding it gingerly by its
drawstring, which he wrapped around his partner’s wrist.
“Buena
suerte,” Keitel said.
Garza
smiled. The online language classes were obviously working.
