Chapter Five

“Want me to plug the varmint?” Hickok asked, his left hand on the strap to his Navy Arms Henry Carbine.

“Be serious,” Blade said.

“I am. I can always use the target practice,” Hickok stated impishly.

Blade gazed to the east and spied an intersection 30 yards distant.

The Narc vehicle unexpectedly accelerated, driving to the intersection and taking a left, then pulling over to the curb. Two men in blue uniforms and caps climbed out and crossed to the near side, then halted, waiting.

Blade knew the Narcs were waiting for the Warriors. He casually placed his hands near his Bowies and looked at Hickok and Rikki. “Let me do the talking.”

Hickok grinned. “Fine by me. But if you decide to plug ’em, I get first dibs.”

“We want to avoid a confrontation,” Blade said.

“What a party-pooper.”

Blade faced the intersection with an expression of feigned innocence.

He pretended to be interested in a grocery store across the avenue as he neared the intersection. Out of the corner of his left eye, he saw the pair of Narcs coming toward him.

The men in blue positioned themselves directly in the giant’s path. Both wore revolvers on their right hips.

“Hello, citizen,” said the tallest of the two.

Blade stopped and smiled. “Hello.”

Hickok moved to Blade’s right, Rikki the left. Both stood calmly, Rikki with a slight grin, Hickok beaming like an idiot.

“Howdy!” the gunman declared.

The tall Narc glanced at the gunfighter, then at the short man in black.

“These two friends of yours?”

“Two of the best,” Blade admitted. “How may we help you?”

“We received a call a couple of minutes ago,” the tall Narc disclosed, raking the Warriors with a probing gaze. “There’s been a report of a 10-69.”

“A what?” Blade questioned.

“A 10-69. Restraint of trade by interference with a pusher in the exercise of his or her rights,” the tall Narc elaborated.

Hickok looked at Blade with a shocked countenance. “Do you mean that uncouth character was a pusher? I didn’t know that!”

“What uncouth character?” The Narc demanded.

“We had a minor disagreement with a young gentleman who tried to force us to buy drugs from him,” Blade answered.

“Then it was you,” the Narc said. “You three fit the descriptions.”

“Are we in any trouble?” Blade, inquired.

“That depends,” the Narc said. “Do you live in Miami?”

“We’re visiting,” Blade replied.

“From where?”

Blade mentally reviewed the map of Florida he’d studied. “Jerome,” he responded quickly.

“Why are you here?” the Narc interrogated them.

“We’re on vacation,” Blade said. “Thought we’d come to the Big City.

Have some fun. Live it up.” He paused and frowned. “We didn’t expect to be jumped by a gang of wet-nosed delinquents.”

“That damn Fowler!” the Narc muttered.

“Fowler?”

“Yeah. He’s a lower-echelon pusher. We’ve received a few complaints about him before. Seems he likes to strong-arm his sales. But there’s never been a case we could prove. Do you want to file a formal complaint with his Dealer?”

Blade’s forehead creased, as if he was pondering the matter. “I don’t want to make waves,” he remarked.

The Narc shrugged. “It’s your choice, mister. But if it was up to me, I’d file the complaint. Assholes like Fowler only spoil the trade for the law-abiding, hard-working pushers.”

“How would I go about filing a complaint?” Blade queried.

“I’ll see that Admin gets the proper forms to you,” the Narc said, reaching into the top right pocket of his uniform shirt. “But I’ll need your names and the place where you’re staying.” He pulled a small notepad and a pen from the pocket.

“We just arrived,” Blade stated. “We haven’t decided where to stay.”

“Try Hotel Row,” the Narc suggested.

“What’s that?”

The Narc cocked his head at an angle and stared at the giant. “Jerome must be in the boonies. Hotel Row is another name for Miami Beach. It’s an island to the east of Miami, about two and a half miles across Biscayne Bay. You can take any of the causeways over on a shuttle bus. From where we’re at, I’d say take the Kennedy Causeway or the Julia Tuttle Causeway.

Both will get you there. And if you’re looking to live it up, Miami Beach is the place you want.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Blade said.

“Tell you want I’ll do,” the Narc offered. “I’ll have the forms delivered to the Ocean View. It’s not the ritziest joint, but it should suit you just fine.”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Blade remarked.

“It’s no trouble,” the Narc insisted. “Besides, if you do file the complaint, and if the Dealer decides Fowler did try to stiff you, then I get a bonus. Every little bit helps.”

“You get a bonus?” Blade mentioned in surprise.

“Sure. The Dealers don’t like the pushers to overstep their bounds. Most of the pushers know how to toe the line, but a shithead like Fowler can give all of them a bad name. Which is why the Dealers like to know about incidents like this. They want the bad seeds weeded out. Any Narc who helps get rid of the driftwood receives a bonus. After all, the last thing the Dealers want is to jeopardize the tourist trade.”

“Understandable,” Blade commented.

“Your going to Miami Beach will make filing your complaint a lot easier,” the Narc observed.

“It will?”

“Sure. The Dealers all have their assigned territories in the Greater Miami metro area. The whole city is divided among them. North Miami.

Hialeah. Coral Gables. You name it, a Dealer controls it. But not Miami Beach. That’s neutral territory. No one Dealer can claim it, and that’s where most of them hang out. Practically all the Dealers have suites there.”

“Fowler’s Dealer too?”

“Yeah,” The Narc confirmed. “But I can’t think of the name of his hotel.

I’ll have the forms and the info sent to the desk at the Ocean View. All you have to do is complete the paperwork, then drop it in the mail. Easy as pie.”

“You have mail service?” Nickok asked.

The Narc snickered. “Yep. You’re definitely country boys. Of course we have mail service! It’s only in the Greater Miami area, and delivery is slow sometimes, but the mail gets through.”

“I appreciate your effort on our behalf,” Blade said courteously.

“No problem. Now I need your names.”

“John Clayton,” Blade answered.

“And you?” the Narc asked, looking at Hickok.

The gunman grinned. “William Cody.”

“And you?” the Narc inquired of Rikki.

“Bruce Lee.”

The Narc dutifully scribbled the names in his notepad. “Okay. Thanks for your cooperation.” He nodded at them, wheeled, and strolled off with his fellow officer.

“Most mystifying,” Rikki mentioned.

“Not really,” Blade said.

“Then maybe you can explain it to me, pard,” Hickok chimed in. “Why the dickens was that hombre so blamed nice to us? Why didn’t he haul us in?”

“Checks and balances,” Blade stated. “The Masters have set up a system of keeping everyone in their organization in line. I didn’t realize it before, but the tourist trade must be critically important. They wouldn’t want the pushers to endanger it.”

“Where do these tourists come from?” Hickok asked.

“The southern U.S.,” Blade guessed. “Probably elsewhere. Maybe Central or South America. The Dragons must have trade relations with someone able to supply the fuel for their vehicles.”

“What’s this business about checks and balances?” the gunman questioned.

“The Narcs serve a two-fold purpose,” Blade said. “They insure no one interferes with the drug trade, but they also keep an eye on the pushers to make sure none of them step out of line. That Narc said he gets a bonus for turning in pushers gone bad. The idea is brilliant. The pushers are continually monitored by the so-called police force created to protect the drug trade.”

“I’m glad you’re impressed,” Hickok stated.

“We can’t underestimate the Masters,” Blade warned.

“I don’t intend to estimate ’em,” Hickok said. “All I want to do is plug ’em full of holes.”

“Are we going to Miami Beach?” Rikki inquired.

“We are,” Blade replied. “Let’s go.” He headed to the east.

The next hour passed uneventfully as they meandered into the heart of the metropolis. Both the pedestrian and vehicle traffic increased the farther east and south they went. Guns were in evidence everywhere, but the citizenry appeared to take the presence of the firearms in stride.

Miami’s population was a cosmopolitan mix of ethnic groups. Some neighborhoods consisted of predominantly Hispanic or black residents, while others were racially integrated. Gangs were in abundance. Every six blocks or so, there would be an average of ten youths lounging on the steps of a tenement or hanging out on a street corner. Their faces were invariably hard and challenging, and black leather was obviously the preferred style of clothing.

If the gangs and the guns were common, the drug use was universal.

Deals were conducted openly. Hundreds of people the Warriors passed were smoking odd, stubby cigarettes that gave off a pungent odor.

Popping pills or capsules was also a favorite pastime. A large number of the gang members bore needle marks on their arms. Street vendors, urchins mainly, hawked their wares brazenly. The result of all this drug use was reflected in the customers; heavy users weaved as they walked, or gazed at the world with blank expressions, or talked to themselves. Totally wasted men and women were a frequent sight, their personalities shattered, their clothing mere rags, filthy and beyond reclamation.

“Remind me to never take a vacation here,” Hickok said at one point.

“Same here,” Rikki said. “Why would anyone come to Miami as a tourist?”

“Why else?” Blade responded. “For drugs. Miami could well be the drug capital of the Western Hemisphere, for all we know. When that Narc talked about tourists, he wasn’t referring to the old-fashioned kind who took their families on trips to amusement parks once a year. He was talking about drug-users. Think of it. An entire tourist industry catering to drug-users. Every drug a person could imagine, right here at their fingertips.”

“People come here from all over merely for drugs?” Rikki commented in disgust.

“That’s the way I read it,” Blade replied.

Hickok spotted an emaciated man, naked from the waist up, to their left. The man’s arms were discolored and dotted with needle tracks. “This is sick.”

The buildings were becoming taller, more stately. Dozens of skyscrapers appeared to the southeast.

Blade made for them. He spied a Narc car patrolling the adjacent street, and realized dozens had driven by during their trek. The Narcs must need to maintain a high profile to keep a lid on the city.

A boy of six or seven, wearing jeans and a green shirt, ran up to the Warrior and tugged at his left leg. “Hey, mister?”

Blade halted and glanced down. “What?”

“Can you spare some coin?”

“I don’t have any coins,” Blade told him.

“Please, mister,” the boy said. “My dad needs a dime bag bad.”

“You need money for your dad to buy drugs?” Blade asked.

The boy nodded.

“I can’t help you,” Blade said sadly.

Frowning, the boy ran off.

“How could these folks do this to themselves?” Hickok wondered aloud.

“I don’t know,” Blade admitted.

They entered the heart of Miami, the downtown section with its towering skyscrapers, with predominantly antiquated cars and trucks bumper to bumper, and with a seething wave of pedestrians on every sidewalk.

Blade drifted with the crowds, enthralled by the spectacle. He was in no hurry to reach Miami Beach. Studying enemy terrain was essential to the success of any mission, and he was familiarizing himself with the landmarks, noting the tallest skyscrapers and other distinctive structures.

“Does the air smell funny to you two?” Hickok inquired. “Sort of tangy?”

“We might be near the ocean,” Blade guessed.

They traveled in an easterly direction. A sign materialized ahead: BAYFRONT PARK. Water was visible to the east and south.

“We’ll take a break in the park,” Blade suggested.

They followed the sidewalk until they came to a beautifully landscaped strip of land, a garden of tropical foliage. Dozens of people were lounging on the green grass. Others were engaged in games or conversation.

Skimpy attire was the order of the day.

“At last!” Hickok remarked. “Breathin’ space.”

The Warriors mingled with the crowd, moving at random, observing.

“What the blazes is that guy doing?” Hickok asked.

Two men and two women were sitting on a blue blanket under a tree.

In the center of the blanket was a small folding table, not more than six inches high. On one side of the table was a pile of packets of white powder.

On the other side, one of the men was opening packets and arranging the white powder in straight lines.

The Warriors halted, perplexed.

One of the women leaned forward over the table, pressed the first finger of her left hand against her left nostril, then lowered her right nostril to the white powder. She started inhaling loudly.

“She’s suckin’ that gunk up her nose!” Hickok declared in amazement.

One of the men heard the remark and looked up, smiling. “Hi. Care to join us? There’s plenty to go around.”

“What are you doing?” Hickok asked.

“Getin’ high, dude. What else?”

“What is that stuff?”

The man stared at the Warrior as if he was from another planet. “Coke, man. We’re snortin’ a little. You sure you don’t want some?”

Hickok shook his head. “No thanks. I don’t even stick a finger up my nose unless it’s a serious emergency.”

The man shrugged and returned his attention to the small table.

“Cow chips,” Hickok muttered. “The whole blamed city is full of cow chips.”

The Warriors continued walking.

“We have company,” Rikki stated, nodding to their right.

Blade glanced around.

Seven men, ranging in age from their twenties to the late thirties, were standing in a compact group 15 yards away. All seven were eyeing the Warriors with intense interest. And all seven were armed, four with revolvers, two with rifles over their shoulders, and one with a pump shotgun. Their attire was a mix of jeans, boots, and leather shirts and jackets. One of them, a man about six feet tall with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, motioned with his left arm. The seven strolled toward the Warriors.

Hickok sighed. “Here we go again.”

“I’ll handle this,” Blade said.

The seven approached to within three yards and stopped. Their apparent leader, the man with the beard, grinned. “Buenas tardes, señor,” he said to Blade.

“Hello,” the Warrior responded.

“¿Habla español?”

“What?”

“Do you speak Spanish, señor?”

“No,” Blade admitted.

The man nodded slowly. “English then. I am Pedro.”

“What can we do for you?”

Pedro tilted his head, inspecting the portion of the Paratrooper visible above the giant’s right shoulder. “We couldn’t help but notice, eh? Your guns.”

“What about them?”

“They are nice guns, no?”

“They get the job done,” Blade replied.

Pedro patted the Smith and Wesson on his right hip. “Our guns are not so new as yours. Ours are old guns.”

“Ours were manufactured before the war,” Blade said. “We take good care of them.”

Pedro nodded. “So I see, eh? Real good care.”

Blade waited for the man to come to the point.

“Would you like to sell them?” Pedro asked.

“No.”

“Just one or two.”

“No.”

The corners of Pedro’s mouth curled downward slightly. “Please, señor. You don’t understand. We will buy some of your guns. We won’t cheat you on the price. You name it.”

“Our guns are not for sale,” Blade stated firmly.

Pedro sighed and gazed at his companions, then back at the three strangers. “Por favor, señor. Guns like yours are important to us. Good guns are hard to come by. They can mean life or death. You see?”

“I see. But the guns are not for sale.”

Pedro surveyed the park, his lips pursed.

Blade tensed. He realized the man was checking for Narcs. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“One last time, señor,” Pedro said. “Will you sell us some of your guns?”

“No.”

“Then we will take them.”

The seven sprang forward.

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