Tampa Star (Blackfox Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

Bruener
remembered being drunk most of the time ashore and catching a nasty case of gonorrhea that made it feel like he was pissing razor blades―he was never one for the caution of a rubber.  Life had changed and he had “matured.” Now a family man, with a young wife with a bun in the oven he liked to say. He needed more than Olsen could offer him, so he would go back to working on as an engineer on a Panmax class ship, so named as it was built with just enough clearance to squeeze through the narrowest part of the Panama Canal. 

The engine was solid―Tommy had checked it out himself prior to taking it under consignment from an Orleans attorney who had grown bored with it.  Frank was impressed enough with Tommy’s skills to invite him out for dinner.  They took a cab to Bourbon Street and found a restaurant called Brennan’s located in an old Absinthe House that looked to be as old as the city herself.

Tommy had been by the place many times while growing up, but going inside as a patron seemed like an alien experience to him. They were dressed in work clothes, so the thin, gaunt looking maître d’ quickly ushered them into the bar, after all it was a week night and he could not afford to turn up his mustachioed nose at paying customers, even if they were dressed like dockworkers.

The rich dark wood paneled interior of the bar still felt too good for Tommy, but Frank made himself right at home by plopping himself down into the deep leather recesses of a high backed bar chair. He ordered a Highball of Basil Hayden’s up and when Tommy seemed mystified by the order, Frank ordered him a Heineken beer, telling him it was imported from Holland.

Over drinks,  Frank confided in Tommy the  fact that he was moving on as Frank’s wife wanted more security than a job at Olsen’s could provide. Bruener was impressed with Tommy’s skill and said he could recommend Tommy as his replacement, thinking that it would make Olsen happy and assuage his own guilt at leaving what had been a good job.

Tommy was initially skeptical; good things usually came with strings attached, in his experience anyways.  He warmed to the
idea over a dinner of Creole Onion Soup, salad of iceberg lettuce and beefsteak tomatoes covered in real blue cheese and a twelve ounce Filet Mignon accompanied by a good bottle of French Bordeaux. After dinner, they ordered brandy and cigars. 

While smoking a good Dominican Chateau Fuente
cigar and savoring a glass of Carlos I, the silky smooth brandy of Pedro Domecq, Frank conspiratorially leaned forward, touched Tommy on the back of his hand, “Sail back to St. Pete with me.”

Frank went on to explain that he was supposed to hire a second hand, but that would take time and this would help him out, while allowing Tommy the opportunity to learn more about the business, enjoy the trip and in the end, be interviewed by the Commodore.

Tommy thought about it and was initially touched that his new friend thought so highly of him to suggest that they sail to Tampa together.

Frank continued as if the deal was not yet sealed and required further persuasion
, “you don’t like the Commodore or he don’t like you and we buy you a ticket back here; plane, train or bus, up to you, but I got to tell you, you’re going to love working there. It’s a sweet deal,” he said as he removed the cigar from his mouth, pointed the tip at Tommy as if to punctuate the statement. 

Frank would use the trip as an opportunity to teach Tommy the nuances of the yacht business and to get the down low on the particular way Olsen did business. He was trying to build a high end used yacht brokerage that would cater to the better heeled customers in the Tampa Bay Area. Olsen had a prime location, some good inventory and wanted to cultivate clientele that would buy slightly used, but still expensive, pleasure boats. He often sent Frank traveling to cherry-pick such valuable inventory.

Everything Olsen did needed to reflect the image of a Luxury Yacht Brokerage; the yachts, the buildings, clientele and even his employees.  Frank was a rough around the edges mechanic that Olsen had polished into his second in command. Frank saw the same potential in Tommy and he told him so. Shit, thought Tommy, if only they knew!  

Tommy decided not to share any information about his future plans with his current employer, as he had little doubt they would try

and scuttle them. That morning, he left his boss a short note that he was quitting to go join his family up north.  He then met Frank at a marina where he would be fueling the yacht.  Tommy quickly threw a duffle bag containing all his meager belongings on board and then dutifully helped fill the fuel tanks. 

The trip was originally planned by Olsen as a farewell boondoggle for Frank.
Olsen had originally planned to accompany him, but a last minute opportunity arose to inspect a thirty eight foot yacht moored in Key West that was strikingly similar to the Pilar—Hemingway’s famous boat rumored to still be in Cuba.  Olsen figured it was worth investigating—-he cancelled his plans with Frank and hopped a flight to Miami.

They sailed the pleasure boat back to Tampa Bay and had a great time doing it; taking four days to make the transit, staying close to the coast, stopping to fish and staying over in marinas along the route rather than sleeping at sea.  They would have drinks and dinner at whatever marina they stayed and played cards late into the night.

In Pensacola, they stayed at the Pelicans Rest Marina and invited a couple of bar patrons they had met on board for a poker game.  The game started out fast, with Tommy winning several large pots right away.  He was giddy with delight at relieving two of the better heeled boat owners of several hundred dollars.  As the game continued into the later evening, Tommy’s delight turned into frustration as he began to lose.  He upped his bets in order to chase the cards and became belligerent after he lost a particularly big pot. At the end of the evening, he was left pretty much where he started.  

Once they arrived in St. Petersburg, the Commodore took Frank at his word that Tommy was honed from the same stone as Frank and Tommy was hired after a short chat.  He rapidly adapted to the job with little effort as the workload was lighter and more oriented toward the world of leisure than his last job at a commercial shipyard.

The boatyard had a small apartment in one of the outbuildings that sat unused. Mr. Olsen told him to make it his own and even gave him an old TV set to help pass his off work hours.

He found the work almost relaxing in contrast to his indentured servitude in New Orleans and he rubbed shoulders with more laid back, rich customers: guys on vacation or retired who sought out Tommy’s opinion on everything from what outboard had

the best speed to the most appropriate color for the new drapes in the parlor.  It was a bit intoxicating at first. He was considered the help, but his particular knowledge made him a valuable commodity and he was often rewarded for a little extra attention with a few bucks or a six pack of beer.

He had to admit it was a pretty sweet deal for a newly released convict, but he felt something was missing. It took a while for him to realize that he longed for the danger, excitement and access to ready cash that he had during his days of robbing with his now dead cousins.

Jimmy felt something hit his shoulder with the force of a sledge hammer and then felt nothing as his body was knocked back into the canal and he lost consciousness.  The water initially did not wake him and he first gasped for breath underwater, causing his lungs to be deluged with water.  That should have been the end for him, had not one of the deputies been a born again Christian and a first aid instructor for the Sheriff’s Department.  He dove in after Jimmy and with grudging help from two other deputies, hoisted his unconscious body back on shore over the steep embankment of the canal onto a newly plowed field that smelled of hay and cow manure.

The cop placed him on his stomach, pulled him up to his knees by grasping him around his middle  and slapped him on the back a couple of times, the strength of the blows driving him back into a prone position.  Jimmy felt his body heave and a gusher of canal water burst from his lungs; he coughed again and other gusher spewed forth. This continued for what felt like an hour, but was probably no longer than a few minutes. He landed down river from where he entered the water, the current was strong; they must have opened a sluice gate or something.  He had regained consciousness enough to feel the pain in his shoulder, rolled over onto his back and looked at the officer, squinting he read the gold nameplate on his chest.

“Givens,” he said.

“Deputy Givens, to you,” the officer corrected him.  Jimmy nodded and tried to think of something to say. “Thank you” was all he could think of.  Givens just nodded and told Jimmy to lay still.

Apparently, they had called an ambulance—Jimmy heard the low whine of the siren in the distance gaining in loudness as it approached and Jimmy faded from consciousness.

Jimmy was in and out of consciousness for what seemed like a long period of time.  He awoke sometime later in the dark, tried to move and found that he was handcuffed to the bedframe.  He had been cuffed enough to know that it was easy to defeat them—just give him a paperclip, but not yet.  He explored further and felt tubes running into his left forearm.  After a moment, his eyes adjusted to the lack of light and he was able to see that he was in a hospital room.  He felt no pain in his shoulder, but felt a nice mellow warmth; painkillers, no doubt.  He figured that the IV in his arm was responsible for that.  He went back to sleep feeling strangely at ease. 

The following morning he was awoken by a large black man dressed in a starched white shirt and pants, busily engaged in switching out the intravenous bottles containing various fluids. The nurse noticed that he was awake, but ignored him and went about his business switching out the empty bottle.

“Where am I?” Jimmy managed to say over chapped lips and a mouth as dry as he imagined the Sahara desert to be.

“Covington Memorial Hospital,” said the nurse curtly, not bothering to look at him as he tapped on the plastic drip chamber to make sure the IV drip was functioning.  Once he was satisfied that it was, he looked down at Jimmy and spoke.

“I’ll be back to change that bandage in a few minutes,” and then as an afterthought added, “I’m not going to have any trouble with you, am I James?”

Jimmy looked up at the man, who appeared from his angle of view to be well over six and a half feet tall, dressed in a  shirt that seem to barely constrain a muscular physique.

“No,” Jimmy mumbled. “I am feeling too good to mess with anyone.” He smiled up at the man and then, embarrassed at being so docile, looked away towards the window.

“Well, good,” the man said while walking towards the door. He turned as if forgetting something and added—“They should be bringing around breakfast trays in a little while. Keep up the good behavior and there is no reason to feel bad while you
’re our guest.”

The cop guarding him was not so nice. He sat in a chair immediately outside the room and came in regularly to check on Jimmy and check the security of the handcuff.  Normally this seemed to occur when Jimmy was asleep; the cop would roughly shake the cuffs, until Jimmy awoke, then scowl at him, like Jimmy was a heap of dog-shit the cop had discovered on his shoe. 

Once, when Jimmy had to piss, he beckoned to the cop to untie his restraints and allow him to use the bathroom. The cop pointedly told him to shut the fuck up and use the piss-bottle.

The afternoon cop was not much better and he was usually asleep when the cop who had the midnight shift arrived.  Jimmy awoke one night to hear soft rhythmic snoring coming from behind

the curtain separating the beds and thought that they had moved another patient in with him, only to discover later that it was the cop who had the midnight shift.

He was a tremendously fat man, with a big red face and a bucket shaped head that seemed to sit directly on his body without the benefit of a neck. The only saving grace about the man was that he did not bother Jimmy at all, but seemed more interested in sleeping than checking that his prisoner   was secure. 

After noting the fat slob’s particular behavior, Jimmy took to observing the man’s conduct. He would normally arrive a few minutes before his shift started and jovially bullshit with the swing shift guy, who in response was curt to the point of rudeness.  The fat cop would wait about ten minutes or so, come into his room carrying a barn shaped grey lunch box and thermos, lie back on the vacant bed, plunk the box down on the hospital tray stand, and loudly commence eating, slurping  coffee in between chomping bites.  Given his corpulence, it was not surprising that the slurping and munching sounds went on for a long time. 

A short time after the eating sounds would
stop, they would be replaced by snoring in a volume loud enough to keep Jimmy from falling asleep.  He noticed that the cop awoke the following morning only when light began to filter into the window next to his bed—Jimmy estimated it was probably about five thirty or so.  He heard the bed groan in relief as the fat man struggled to his feet.  Jimmy closed his eyes feigning sleep, all the time imagining the man straightening his tie, tucking his tent size shirt back into his clown sized pants, placing his cop-hat back on bucket shaped head and waddling out of the room.  It seemed to Jimmy that his prospects for an early release just brightened considerably.    

After morning shift change, the same orderly came into his room to change the IV bottles. He seemed friendlier than usual and even shot the breeze with Jimmy as he labored. He confided in Jimmy that he had a cousin in the penitentiary for robbery, like Jimmy, but his preferred target was jewelry stores, until an encounter with a shotgun wielding store owner cut short his career.

Jimmy laughed at this and figured he had enough rapport to ask him if he knew when he would be transferred.

“
Any day now” was a response that didn’t entirely surprise him, given the expense of round the clock security and the fact that Angola had a complete prison hospital.

After the nurse left, Jimmy managed to get a few hours’ sleep.  He awoke excited and began planning; he would need a paperclip or two to practice opening the cuffs, a set of clothes, and a way to escape in a hurry.  The paperclip would be first however as there would be no way he could get out of bed and arrange the other two without them. Later in the day, the day shift cop delivered his arrest paperwork: several documents including the record, a property receipt, and order to be held without bail, all nicely held together with a small metal clip.  Jimmy wasn’t a religious man, aside from having spent three years as an Altar Boy, his mother thinking close association with priest would enhance his behavior, when all it did was give him ready access to communion wine and a few extra bucks to buy cigarettes when he attended to  weddings and funerals .  But, the coincidence of receiving exactly what he needed to pick the lock on the cuffs made him thankful; he was just not sure who to thank.

That night as Tubby snored peacefully away, Jimmy reached over to the tray holder and slipped the paperclip off of the arrest documents with his free hand.  Holding the paperclip in his restrained hand, he straightened one of the ends of the clip, inserted it in the keyhole and turned it several times until he heard an audible click.  The racket released and he slipped the cuff off his right hand.

He studied the IV set up for about two or three minutes before deciding how best he could unhook himself without detection. He choose to pull the IV needle out from the other hollow tube that was inserted into his forearm, as he figured it would be easy to reinsert it upon his return.

Jimmy silently slipped his legs out of the sheets and lowered them to the floor—it felt cold on his bare feet.  He shuffled across the floor to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out.  The hallway was dark and quiet. He could just make out a light at the end of the hallway to the right that he assumed was the nurse’s station.  He stood there quietly listening and heard a soft female voice talking. He heard no one answer her and assumed she must be on the phone. That held promise as if he could get to a phone; he could get out of here, definitely not tonight, but maybe in a day or so. 

He also heard the low murmur of a television playing the theme music of that late night show that had someone in it called Johnny.  Jimmy slipped out the door and across the hall to the same side as the nurse’s station, his bare ass to the wall as he slowly sidled down the hall. 

As he approached, the sound of the woman’s voice and the television growing steadily louder, his heart was beating so powerfully he was sure it was audible. As he continued moving, he felt the hallway wall open into a doorway alcove off his right shoulder.  At about the same time he spied his figure dressed in a hospital gown displayed on the large convex security mirror hanging above the nurse’s station.  He quickly backed into the alcove, blocking his reflection and waited for a scream or shout. When none came, he turned and felt for the doorknob, then twisted it slowly clockwise; opened it slightly and slipped inside. The door was solid wood, so he felt around for a light switch on the wall and turned on the light.

He was in an office, apparently for the daytime nursing supervisor as evidenced by the nameplate on the desk. Next to the nameplate sat a desk lamp and a black telephone. He turned on the desk lamp and then switched off the overhead light, approached the telephone, lifted the receiver from its cradle
and listened for a dial tone. She answered on the fourth ring, given the fact that it was probably around 3 a.m., he was thankful she answered at all. 

“Hello?” She said tentatively, almost as if she knew that most bad news came during these hours.

“Brenda, it’s me, Jimmy, listen, I need your help,” he whispered.  He went on to explain that he was in a hospital in a small town on the north side of Lake Pontchartrain. 

He hung up the phone and quickly searched the desk. He found little and then his eyes focused on a wooden cabinet with glass doors that stood against the wall.  Two large red crosses were painted on the doors.  Jimmy tried the door and found it locked. He went back to the desk and searched it, finding a small brass key in the top drawer. He unlocked the cabinet and visually inventoried the contents.  He wasn’t sure what he was looking for but figured he would know it when he found it.

The following night as Tubby again snored away, Jimmy returned to the office and looted the medicine cabinet, taking bottles of three different medications, bandages and medical tape.  He found

an
old brown bag in the trash can and filled it with the looted contents, quietly slipped out the door, and down the stairs to an exit and out into the hot night air. 

Jimmy searched the parking lot and spied an old car at the back of the lot. He ran to it and quickly climbed into the back seat of the battered, gray ’53 Plymouth.  As soon as the door slammed shut, the car sped out the exit towards Route 190, going east.

In a little more than two days, Jimmy had thoroughly planned his escape. In the trunk of Brenda’s battered car were Jimmy’s clothes and the proceeds from three bank robberies, which amounted to about nineteen thousand dollars—enough money to subsidize a getaway, but not enough to live on forever. 

In the back seat sat a brown grocery bag. Jimmy quickly upended it and spread its contents on the seat. He placed a short haired blond wig on his head, and then quickly slipped into a priest’s black cassock.  After he buttoned the front and placed the sash around his middle, he placed the black biretta upon his head.  Brenda had gone to a church supply in New Orleans that day and purchased it, along with a large bronze cross and an old leather bible. 

Jimmy figured he had until five or so until Tubby awoke from his nap and they raised the alarm for an escaped prisoner. He imagined that they would set up road blocks and be looking for a wounded man traveling alone, wearing a hospital gown.  He had given that a lot of thought and he figured that the lawmen would not be much interested in questioning Father Timothy, from the Archdiocese of New Orleans on his way to his family’s home in Tampa to see his old sick mother in the company of his sister, Brenda.

She stopped the car and he hopped in the front seat. She smiled at him and he reached over behind her neck, pulled her toward him and fiercely kissed her.  She handed him a pack of Lucky Strikes and a pint bottle of Old Crow bourbon.  He brought the bottle to his lips and emptied half of it in one gulp, sighed and lit a cigarette as she turned the wheel and sped back on the road.

They were stopped twice at roadblocks that day; once in Gulfport that morning and later that afternoon in Grand Bay, Alabama.  Both times the State Police waved them through as soon as they saw Jimmy’s vestments and his blond hair. They stopped that evening outside of Pensacola.