CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“So, we’ve ruled out the stalker,” J.D. said.
“Guy’s a nut job,” said Jock.
We were having lunch at Rotten Ralph’s on the Bradenton Beach Pier. A few tourists were seated at the outside tables, but we were cheerfully ensconced in the air-conditioned area. The sun was high and brutal, the heat index worse than usual. The humidity had followed the storms of the day before and descended on us like a layer of sweat.
We’d driven back to Longboat Key after leaving Chick in the parking lot. I’d typed up my notes that morning and mailed them to J.D. For now, I was keeping them from Chaz Desmond. If he was involved in this thing in some way, I couldn’t figure it out. And until I did, I wanted to keep him out of the information loop.
“Jock,” J.D. said, “did your people come through with any information on the bank in Vietnam?”
Jock looked pained. “No. I got a call from the director this morning. He was very apologetic, but whatever is going on up there is real big and he just can’t spare the manpower to handle our problem. He said he’d get to it as soon as he could, but he couldn’t tell me when that’d be.”
“Is Clyde Bates still in the county lockup?” I asked J.D.
“Yeah. He’s being held on two attempted murder charges. The bail is a lot more than he can make. Why?”
“I’m curious,” I said. “Why would John Nguyen hire that numbnut to hit somebody? For that matter, why did he even go to O’Reilly’s in the first place? That isn’t exactly the kind of place I’d go looking for a hitman.”
“I’ve been thinking about that myself,” said J.D. “Maybe there’s more to O’Reilly’s than we know.”
“I bet David Sims would know,” said Jock.
Sims was a Manatee County detective who had helped us in the past. He was a former Secret Service agent who had been on the county force for almost thirty years. He knew just about everything that went on in Manatee County.
“J.D.,” I said, “do you want to call him?”
“Why don’t the three of us go see him,” she said.
“It’s Saturday. He’s probably off fishing somewhere.”
“Try him,” said Jock. “You’ve got his cell number.”
I called Sims and caught him as he was putting his boat in the water at the ramp next to Annie’s. I told him that Jock was in town and we needed to see him.
“If you can meet me at Annie’s in the next thirty minutes,” he said. “After that I’m going to be sitting on my boat out next to those grass flats on the east side of the Sister Keys.”
Thirty minutes later, we were at Annie’s, a small wooden structure built on pilings over the bay at the mainland foot of the Cortez Bridge. It housed a combination bait shop, bar, restaurant, and fishing supply store. It had a fuel dock and some of the best hamburgers on the west coast.
We sat at a small table on the deck overlooking two long piers, one of which held the fuel pumps and the other various commercial boats, a Jet Ski rental concession, and a parasail boat that pulled tourists on a parachute attached to a long line.
“This can’t be good,” Sims said, shaking his head. “Every time you guys show up, something is about to go off the rails.”
“We’re just looking for a little information,” I said. I pointed to J.D. “You can see we’re on the law’s side here.”
He laughed. “Either that or Detective Duncan has gone over to the dark side. What can I help you with?”
“Are you familiar with O’Reilly’s bar in Palmetto?” I asked.
“Yeah. Big Tony DeMarco owns the place.”
“Any crime going on there that you know about?” J.D. asked.
“There’s always some penny-ante stuff happening, but nothing serious.”
“Like what?” asked J.D.
“Card games, betting. Big Tony fronts for a bookie, but it’s all smalltime stuff.”
“You’ve never busted him?” I asked.
“No. We keep an eye on the place and if anything got serious we’d move in. But Big Tony knows that and stays mostly clean.”
“What about running a clearinghouse for hitmen?” I asked.
Sims laughed. “You’re kidding.”
I told him about Bates and John Nguyen and how Big Tony arranged for them to get together.
Sims laughed some more. “Clyde Bates? Cleans boats over at the marina? That’s precious.”
“He came after Jock and me,” I said.
“That shows you how stupid he really is,” said Sims. “Coming after you two.”
“What do you know about Bates?” J.D. asked.
“He’s kind of a joke around Palmetto. He works at the marina on the north side of the river. Been there for a couple of years. He’s a local boy. Dropped out of high school and worked at the marina ever since. He lives on an old houseboat that the marina owner keeps back in the work area on chocks. Boat hasn’t been in the water in years.”
“So, you’re telling me he’s not really a hitman,” said J.D.
“Not even close. I heard he goes down to O’Reilly’s most nights. Gets a little buzz on and tells the bikers he’s a tough guy who kills people for a living. Nobody believes him, of course, but he’s harmless so they put up with him. Treat him sort of like a mascot.”
“Doesn’t sound like anybody with good sense would hire him to kill somebody,” said J.D.
“Maybe,” said Sims, “this Nguyen guy was just trying to send a message.”
“How would that work?”
“Hire the unlikeliest hitman in the area. Nguyen would know Bates couldn’t pull it off, but it might just be enough to scare you off, Matt. He apparently doesn’t know Jock is in the picture, so he points Bates at you, and Bates screws it up, and you’ve gotten the word that you should back off of whatever you’re doing or a real hitman might just be coming your way.”
“That has a certain logic to it,” said Jock.
“Yeah,” I said, “but the guy with the knife made a real effort. He wasn’t fooling around.”
“Are there any Asian gangs operating in this area?” Jock asked.
“No,” said Sims. “We’ve got Mexican gangs, Russian gangs, a number of others, but no Asian gangs that I know of.”
“Then,” I said, “who the hell are these people?”
“Let me know if you find out,” said Sims.
We were crossing the Cortez Bridge when Jock’s cell phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket, opened it, and said, “Text from the director. The information on Desmond was just e-mailed to my computer.”