Straits of Fortune - Anthony Gagliano [82]
After a moment of cautious silence, Vivian got up and began brushing the dirt and sand from her bare legs. I didn’t get up right away. The fall and her weight had knocked the breath out of me, and I’d strained my left shoulder. I sat up and rotated the arm. There was a slight pop, and all was right with the world.
Vivian, oddly enough, was smiling with obvious delight. “That was wild,” she said. “I thought you were going to drop me.”
I got up slowly and winced at the pain in my lower back. “Maybe I should have.”
The lot we had landed in was also owned by the Colonel, but he hadn’t done much with the acreage except keep anyone else from buying it while he made up his mind what to do with it. About a hundred yards away, a solitary crane leaned over the rubble like a dinosaur looking for something to eat. To the left, near the street, a Cyclone fence stretched toward the next house, about 150 yards down the beach. Vivian couldn’t run in her bare feet, and her heels were out of the question, so it took us a while to reach the fence. When we finally did, we had to follow it almost until we reached the next mansion before we found a hole someone had cut into the fence.
The traffic was light on the causeway, but with no other pedestrians around to keep us company, we were far too conspicuous. It would only be a matter of time before whoever it was who had come calling on the Colonel would head back to the mainland again, in which case we might easily be spotted. We had to get off the causeway, and fast. We walked east toward the beach, with me glancing back praying for a cab but seeing nothing. I was starting to lose all hope when I saw a yellow taxi heading our way. It was illegal to pick up passengers on the causeway, but, fortunately, for us, the Haitian driver swooped in like a hawk, did exactly what he wasn’t supposed to do, and was off again even before I had the door closed.
The driver looked us over through the rearview mirror, his eyes lingering on Vivian with obvious approval.
“Where you come from?” he asked.
“West Hell, New Jersey,” I said. “We need to get to the Holiday Inn up in Hollywood. You know where it is?”
“West Hell, is this a real place?”
“Sure.”
“The devil. He live there?”
“No,” I said. “He moved to Miami.”
“When he move?” the driver asked.
“About the same time I did.”
The Haitian laughed. He thought it was funnier than I did. Vivian laid her head on my shoulder as I gazed out the window. The sun was beaming through the early morning haze, and a cruise ship was sliding toward port. A row of passengers stood outside their cabins, staring at the traffic on the causeway. Take away the cops, the FBI, and Williams trying to kill me and it would have seemed liked the beginning of a pretty nice day. I let my head fall back and allowed myself to fall asleep.
I came back to myself when the cab swerved into the driveway of the hotel. While I had dozed off, the ten miles had slipped away like a silk scarf sliding off a stripper’s neck. I nudged Vivian to awaken her. I paid the driver, and he swung out of the parking lot and back into traffic without so much as a single glance in any direction.
The hotel lobby was quiet, but the little coffee stand was already opened when we walked in. Vivian insisted on some espresso, so we helped ourselves to two cups along with a crusty bar of Cuban toast slathered in salty butter, then went out to the pool and sat at a table under a green-and-white umbrella while the sky put on its makeup.
“How do you think this is all going to end, Jack?” Vivian asked. “I can’t keep going on