Deep Water

Copyright © 2023 Jeff Townsend. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law. Prepared for publication by: Authoraide Publications, LLC 1603 Capitol Ave, Suite 310 A275 Cheyenne, Wyoming 82001 Office: (307) 459-1803 | Fax: (307) 224-8450 Website: www.authoraide.com When you’re testing how deep the water is, never use two feet. —Benjamin Franklin You don’t know how to get yourself out of that deep water until you are in deep water. —Kate Tempest A great ship asks deep water. —George Herbert You will never know God’s strength until he has supported you in deep water. —Unknown Miami Miami is a melting pot in which none of the stones melt. They rattle around. —Tom Wolfe The thing that is really cool about Miami Beach is that you have this dichotomy between sunlight and family, happiness, and innocence and then at night, darker, stranger mob conspiracy stuff sort of comes out. It seems like a story telling engine. You just keep writing about how those two worlds smash into each other. —Mitch Glazer If people knew the story of their lives how many would then elect to live them? —Cormac McCarthy Part One 1 Jamesy pulled his Chevy Impala convertible to a stop and battled again with the Standard Road map. The road system was foreign to say the least, and he fought to work out highways and main roads. It was there on the map his destination, the aquatic center, but one-way streets, detours, and roadworks conspired to where he now was, some industrial area, scarcely inhabited on this weekend Saturday. The car rolled on slowly looking for some telltale sign of familiarity to the map. Finally, he stopped at a place—A & B Car Restorations, the sign said. But there were cars parked nearby, out the front near his and around the side, an Impala he recognized, a Dodge Dart, the distinctive tail fins of a Cadillac. Jamesy, map in hand in case of a need for direction guidance, stepped inside to an empty front desk counter. A door at its back was open and he could hear voices. He knocked on the countertop, but there was no reply nor stoppage to whatever was going on. He made a move toward the door but stopped momentarily, the sound of cars entering behind him, one gurgling loudly with its thirst for the gas that fueled it. At the ajar back door, he could see two cars in progress, a 1930 Hudson and Ford 1931 convertible, he thought, a work in progress. Very nice, the thought passed him. A Plymouth, 1930 or other, the car made famous by Bonnie and Clyde untouched from its original glory completed the trio across the width of the work shed. The voices on the other side of them had risen to shouting. Jamesy checked himself and wondered if he should enter and interfere. He could see a number of men standing in the center of the work space, two distinct groups of three, street clothed, not working that was for sure. It struck him as an “us and them” situation, arguing over something. It was something from the cop shows he so liked, like a scene from television, Sunset Strip perhaps, his favorite. He didn’t know if the three had noticed him as he moved between two cars, but it was then he noticed the black bags on the floor near the six men. What happened next scared the wits out of him. The double-sided doors exploded inwards. A 1960 Ford F100 pickup, front reinforced with bars, bulldozed through them at great speed and rammed toward the men. The six scattered, one unfortunately too slow, only to be caught by the bull bars and thrown, propelled into the air. Gunfire started from within the shed. Another vehicle, a Chevrolet Suburban, black as the dead of night, came to a halt behind the pickup, and men started to disgorge from its doors guns in hand. One, Jamesy saw from his crouched position behind the Hudson, wielded a tommy gun reminiscent of Robert Stack’s Untouchables. It started spraying a wide arc of bullets that saw two of the men fall riddled by its firing. Jamesy saw another already on the floor lying in a pool of blood. Another man screamed, his body pinned and crushed by the ramming bull bar of the Ford. Then he saw the gun and the bag, near in front of him. Both must have been propelled his way by the impact of the barging Ford as he hid behind the fender of the Hudson. Jamesy looked at the gun for a moment or two and only when a shot hit the taillight next to him and smashed it to pieces did he think of self-preservation. He reached for it, recognized it as a Smith and Wesson, again thanks to his cop show education, Joe Friday of Dragnet. The bag, partly opened, really surprised him. Money. And lots of it. His hand extended and Jamesy hauled it in. Jamesy scrambled out, dragging the bag with one hand, the gun clutched in the other, his road map forgotten on the floor. The gunfire had stopped. So did he. Statuesque, he waited. It was as if any movement, any noise he made would lead to his discovery. A voice broke the aftermath silence. “They all dead?” a voice boomed. “Looks like it.” “Well fucking check! No witnesses.” Jamesy turned ever so slightly and peeked. He saw a figure standing next to the black Suburban. Recognition. He had seen that person before, somewhere. But where? Television, he recalled with a jolt but still no place or time came to him. He inched silently farther away around the corner. “No