Trapped (23 page)

south in heavy traffic, stoplight to stoplight. I could turn off

at any corner, find a motel or hotel easily enough, but some-

thing keeps me on the road. Like I’m waiting for a shoe to

drop, an idea to reveal itself.

“Where is he staying?” I ask suddenly. “Edwin Manning,

where’s his condo?”

“Somewhere on Brickell,” Shane responds warily, giving

me a quizzical look. “Healy said Brickell Avenue, the finan-

cial district.”

“Will there be motels on Brickell?”

“It’s Miami. There are motels everywhere. But the

Brickell area is high-end, very pricey.”

“Whatever. Just get us there,” I suggest. “Tell me the way.”

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Chris Jordan

8. The Man In The Snakeskin Vest

Edwin Manning and his new associates travel the rutted,

unpaved road in the muscular glory of a fusion-orange

Hummer. An H2 model, so new it’s barely out of the box,

with the Vortex V-8, eight-way leather seats, and every ac-

cessorized goody known to manly men. Not really Edwin’s

kind of transport, he’s basically a Mercedes kind of guy. It

was his son Seth who picked out the Hummer, big grin on

his face, going, Dad, you need this. It’ll be a chick magnet—

next time we’re down we’ll drive it to Key West and see what

happens. The boy always trying to fix him up, kidding but

serious in his own earnest, well-intentioned way. And Edwin

always responding with the same line: if I wanted another

wife I’d buy one. Which they both know is bullshit because

in all the ways that really count Edwin is still married to

Seth’s late mother. Death is not a divorce, not for Edwin.

Next time we’ll drive to Key West.
He can hear the boy’s

voice and the memory brings with it a kind of emotional pulse,

almost electrical in nature. Edwin prays there will be a next

time. Prays that he can find a way to free his son, make him

whole again. That desire, that overwhelming need, is the only

reason he’d ever confine himself in this miserable jouncing tin

box with a subordinate like Salvatore Popkin and his low-life

associates, whose individual names Edwin has blanked from

his mind. These are not people he wants to know, they are

underlings he must tolerate under a circumstance.

“Oof! Fuggin’ hum-job!” says one of them, a nervous,

grinning goon with stringy, unkempt hair, powerful halito-

sis, and a nose that evidently demands picking on a regular

basis.

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177

True enough, the ruts in the road have been rattling their

teeth, but out of loyalty to his son Edwin resents any criti-

cism of the Hummer, or the slang reference to it as a hum-

job. What he’d like to do is give Mr. Stink Breath a smack

on his thick forehead with something heavy, a lead paper-

weight perhaps. Instead he orders the driver to slow down.

That lasts for a few hundred rattling yards and then inevitably

the big V-8 finds its own speed and they keep jouncing.

When one of the morons bumps his head on the roof, Ed-

win has to remind him to tighten his seat belt. The man looks

dumbfounded—the idea obviously never occurred to him—

then complies and nods his thanks.

I am surrounded by overgrown children, Edwin decides.

Big stupid kids with guns. Wonderful.

After three miles on unpaved, rutted road, they come upon

a large sign. A very prominent sign that demands attention.

YOU ARE ENTERING

THE SOVEREIGN TERRITORY OF THE

NAKOSHA NATION.

VISITORS ARE NOT ALLOWED TO CARRY

OR POSSESS FIREARMS OF ANY KIND.

VIOLATORS SUBJECT TO ARREST. NO

EXCEPTIONS.

The Hummer idles, huffing fuel like a juvenile delinquent.

“So what do we do?” Sally Pop wants to know, peering at

the sign, which is large, professionally lettered, and illumi-

nated with cove lighting.

“You’re asking me?” Edwin says, turning in the passen-

ger seat to stare at him.

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Chris Jordan

“I mean, is this enforced or what?”

Edwin shrugs. “I assume they’ll pat you down.”

“Can they do that?” Stink Breath wants to know. “I mean

can an injun really arrest a white man?”

Edwin stares at the man, who is, in his opinion, barely

Caucasian. “They make their own rules,” he says.

“But Florida, anybody can carry a piece,” Stink Breath

says. “I looked it up.”

“This isn’t Florida,” Edwin points out. “This is the

Nakosha Nation.”

“It’s fucked is what it is.”

“Sally?” Edwin says, exasperated. “Handle this please.”

Sally’s plan is they all get out, open the rear door, and

secure the handguns in one of the storage wells, under the

peel-up carpet. Four men, eight guns. A nice symmetry,

Edwin is thinking. You want to know how many weapons,

count the bent noses and multiply by two.

The rutted road continues for another eight miles. For all

of it, every shudder and jounce, Edwin ponders on the pos-

sibility that the Nakosha have another, even more private

access road, and that it is as smooth and well paved as the

autobahn. Restricted to tribal members, of course. Each of

whom now has a net worth in the multiple millions, no

small thanks to him. Men who not so long ago trapped

reptiles for food, who rarely operated a flush toilet, these

same men now logged on to check their diversified portfo-

lios because Edwin Manning had said yes, why not, by all

means let the gambling begin. At the time it seemed a

prudent investment for the fund, a business decision based

on anticipated return, no more, no less. All of which had

led him here, to this road from hell, and to the hell his son

was enduring.

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179

Talk about unintended consequences.

The road, hemmed in by dense mangrove for most of its

winding length, widens as it approaches the settlement. A

dozen or so homes built in the traditional manner, on sturdy

stilts that lift each building a good ten feet above the flood-

plain. Roofs expertly made from thatches of sable palm

fronds. Very picturesque. At one time, Edwin knew, most of

the family had lived—barely survived was more like it—in

a decrepit trailer village, since leveled and replaced by

luxury versions of the traditional chickees, the designs

borrowed from, if not actually executed by, the neighboring

Seminoles.

The village has no security gate, no obvious security

guards, but moments after the Hummer parks in the shadow

of the chickee huts, black-haired men emerge as if from

nowhere and surround the vehicle. They could be brothers

or cousins, all with similar dark eyes, thick hair the color of

glittering coal dust, and not a smile among them.

Edwin lowers his window. “Edwin Manning. I’m here to

see Joe Lang,” he announces. “I called.”

“No guns.”

“Fine,” Edwin says.

He exits the vehicle, raises his arms, expecting to be patted

down. Indicates that Sally and the boys do likewise. Soon

they’re all standing around with their arms in the air. The

black-haired men stare at them but do not touch.

“No guns.”

“Fine, sure,” says Edwin. “We agree, no guns. We are not

carrying firearms. Go ahead, check.”

One of the men, little more than a teenager, really, but

stocky and confident, holds out his hand and says, “Give me

the keys.”

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Chris Jordan

Edwin says, “Somebody give him the keys, please!”

With key in hand the youth goes directly to the back of

the vehicle, opens the rear door, lifts the rug, and exposes the

assortment of handguns stashed in the storage well. He looks

at Edwin, just the trace of a satisfied smirk starting to show.

“The penalty for possession of firearms is ten years, unless

the council decides to show mercy.”

“Fuggin’ hell!” blurts Stink Breath. “Are they crazy?”

The stocky teenager shrugs his indifference. “We passed

that law because white men kept coming on our land. Jacking

gators, running dope, distilling alcohol, all those crazy-ass white

man activities. Only an idiot would insult us by ignoring the

law.”

“I freely admit these men are idiots,” Edwin says, “and I’m

an idiot for employing them. Take the guns. Now, may I

please see Joe Lang? It’s a matter of life and death or I

wouldn’t be here.”

A voice comes down from above.

“Up here,” it says.

A man in a snakeskin vest looks down from the porch of

a newly built chickee, gestures to Edwin. “Just you. Rico?

See the others get something cold to drink.”

Edwin climbs the steps, moves into the shade under the

thatched roof of the wraparound porch. “Joe,” he says.

“Thank you for seeing me. Nice place you got here.”

“Sit.”

Edwin knows better than to offer to shake hands. Nakosha

tribal members sometimes embrace, but never acquired the

habit of gripping hands, and tolerate the practice only out of

politeness. The man in the snakeskin vest pours iced tea from

a heavy glass pitcher dewed with moisture. He’s of slender,

wiry build, fifty or so, with creased skin the color of saddle

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181

leather. Bare chested under the vest, and his faded jeans are

fastened at the waist by a hand-tooled leather belt with a solid

gold buckle cast in the shape of an alligator jawbone.

“You like the vest?” he asks, admiring his own garment.

“Rattlesnake skin, imported from the Philippines. Only

rattlers around here are farm raised. They sell ’em in the

casino gift shop. Five grand. The vest, not the rattlers.”

Edwin waits, sips his iced tea, well aware that the man in

the vest, like his brothers and cousins, does not like to be

rushed into the meat of conversation. Eventually he nods his

assent, invites Edwin to begin the real discussion.

“You know about Ricky?” Edwin begins. “What he’s

done, what he’s doing, what he wants?”

“We do not speak of that person. He is dead.”

“I understand,” Edwin says, “but if he doesn’t get what he

wants he’s going to kill my son.”

“The person is crazy. He is not Nakosha.”

“He was. He’s still your nephew. I need your help, Joe.

Surely you and your family owe me that much.”

The man in the vest avoids eye contact, stares off into the

distance. “We’re very sorry for your troubles, Mr. Manning, but

we can’t speak to the dead. And even if we could, the person

would not listen. The person will do what he wants to do.”

“I’m not asking you to speak directly to Ricky at this

point. I’m asking you to convene the council, make it look

like you’re considering his request. I’m begging you. Help

me find my son.”

The man in the vest reaches into a pocket, removes a pair

of classic Ray-Bans, and puts them on. Eyes completely con-

cealed, he looks as regal as a shirtless man can look. “I am

sorry, Edwin, but what this person does is no longer our

business. There is nothing we can do.”

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Chris Jordan

“That’s your position?” Edwin says, taking care to keep

his voice level and nonthreatening. “Just let it happen? Let

your nephew cut off my son’s fingers, feed him to the buz-

zards, piece by piece? That’s your position?”

The man in the vest shrugs. “What can I do? I told you,

he is dead to us.”

“What happened is, Ricky asked to borrow the corporate

plane. I felt I owed him that much. But it was just an excuse

to snatch my son, who he knew would be piloting the

aircraft. He wants me to intervene with the tribal council,

get him reinstated.”

“Not our problem. He is no longer Nakosha. There will

be no reinstatement.”

Edwin looks down from the porch, observes his security

detail drinking bottles of Coke in the shade, looking fairly

relaxed, given the situation. The young tribal members have

backed away, giving the visitors—the violators—space. Near

as he can tell there have been no more threats about the con-

cealed weapons. Good. He hasn’t got time for that. Just as

he hasn’t got time to enter lengthy, cordial negotiations with

Joe Lang or other members of the council. Seth hasn’t got

time. Time is the enemy. Time is death.

Edwin leans forward, doesn’t bother looking into at the

opaque sunglasses, which he assumes are meant to be, if not

a direct insult, a way of maintaining a cool, impregnable dis-

tance. “Let me tell you what will happen if my son dies,” he

begins, softly but insistently. “First, I will close off all lines

of credit to the tribe and to the gaming enterprise. You may

find another source of financing, but it will be, at the very

least, difficult and more expensive. Second, I will seek to tie

up all tribal assets. I don’t mean your land or your houses or

your trucks and motor homes, those can’t be touched. I mean

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your money. Based on my belief, as elucidated by the army