Midnight Rambler

CHAPTER THREE

The city of Coconut Grove was a funky jungle of overgrown foliage, gourmet restaurants, and late-night bars. It was a far cry from the rest of Miami, which had been scraped clean by development, and I cracked the passenger window to let Buster sniff the many strange and wonderful odors.

I followed Tommy down Tigertail Avenue. The street was a mix of eclectic office buildings and Bahamian-style homes nestled behind protective stone walls. Tommy drove past Jorge Castillo's address and parked farther down the street. I parked in front of Tommy's car and lowered my windows, not wanting Buster to die of heatstroke while I was gone.

Tommy, Margolin, and I met on the cracked sidewalk outside of Castillo's house. There was no sign of the Miami police, which was irritating but not unusual. The city's crime rate was high, and cops were always busy answering calls.

Tommy came up with a plan. While he and Margolin knocked on the front door, I would watch the back of the house to make sure Castillo didn't escape with the baby. As we started to separate, a black BMW 745 came down the street and parked in front of our cars. It was Vasquez, and Tommy let out an exasperated breath.

“This guy is going to fuck this up.”

“Let me handle him,” I suggested.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

I walked down the sidewalk to the BMW. I should probably have let Tommy deal with Vasquez, but I was afraid Vasquez would start arguing and cause a scene. Not being a cop had its advantages, and I confronted Vasquez as he got out.

“Get back in your car,” I said.

“You don't have the right to tell me what to do,” he said indignantly.

I wagged my finger in his face. “This is my case, whether you like it or not. Either you get in the car, or I'll throw you in the trunk. It's your call.”

Vasquez looked at me with murderous intensity. Sweat was marching down his face, the loss of his baby driving him insane.

I softened my voice.

“Let us handle this. Please, Mr. Vasquez.”

His face suddenly cracked.

“I want my baby,” he said, tearing up.

“I know you do. So do I. We all do. Just do as I say. It's for the best.”

He nodded his head woodenly and climbed back into his car.

I returned to where Tommy and Margolin were standing. They'd drawn their weapons and were ready to make the rescue.

“You carrying any heat?” Tommy asked.

“It's back at my office,” I said.

“Sure you want to do this? This guy has done time, Jack. He might be armed.”

My adrenaline was pumping, and I felt better than I had in a long time.

“I'm not backing out,” I said.

“Okay. See you in a few.”

Tommy and Margolin hopped the front wall and walked up the path. At the same time I walked through the next-door neighbor's property and opened a gate into Castillo's backyard. His house was a Spanish-style single-story, the barrel-tiled roof turned black from age. The grass hadn't been mowed in a while, and was knee high.

I cautiously approached the back door. It was ajar, and I pushed it open farther and stuck my head in. Three voices were talking in Spanish at the front of the house. Margolin, Tommy, and a man with a booming voice, whom I assumed was Jorge Castillo. My wife was Mexican, and I knew enough Spanish to understand what was being said. Castillo had invited Margolin and Tommy inside to have a look around. It could mean only one thing. He'd spotted us on the sidewalk and ditched the Vasquez baby.

I did a quick search of the backyard. Lying in the grass were the remains of a window-unit air conditioner and some rusted junk, but no place to hide an infant. Going to the gate, I put my fingers to my lips and let out a harsh whistle. Within moments Buster was out of the car and on the other side of the gate.

“Find the baby, boy. Find the baby.”

I opened the gate, but my dog did not come onto Castillo's property. Instead, he stayed in the neighbor's yard and threw his front paws onto a large plastic garbage pail that I'd walked by moments ago.

“Good boy.”

I made him get down and gently tugged off the lid. The sports section of El Nuevo Herald lay on top of some bags of garbage. I gently pulled the newspaper away, and there she was, Isabella Vasquez, wrapped in a blue beach towel, her eyes firmly shut.

She did not appear to be breathing, and an invisible fist tightened inside my chest.

I ran my fingertip down the side of her angelic face, then said something meant only for God's ears. Her eyelids parted, and she looked up at me in wonder.

“Hey, kiddo.”

I lifted her from the pail and held her protectively against my chest. When my daughter was born, I stayed home for two weeks and let my wife recover while I took care of her. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life.

This was a close second.

I entered Castillo's backyard cooing to Isabella. I am one of those people who never grows tired of looking at babies. As I neared the house a large Hispanic male whom I assumed was Castillo marched through the back door. He was wearing a sleeveless black muscle shirt and carrying an old-fashioned Colt Peacemaker by his side. The gun was as big as anything Clint Eastwood ever carried in the movies, and I retreated backwards into the yard.

Castillo followed me, then fired a single round into the house.

Through a window I could see Tommy and Margolin standing in the kitchen. They both hit the floor.

Castillo faced me. He pointed at the baby as if I was supposed to understand.

“No,” I said firmly.

He aimed the Peacemaker's smoking barrel at my head.

“No,” I repeated.

Our eyes locked. It was the first good look I'd gotten of him.

Fleshy jowls, skin savaged by acne, a flattened nose. A face only a mother could love. Or not.

“Give me the baby,” he demanded in broken English.

“How much did they pay you for her?” I asked.

Castillo aimed at my left ear. I didn't want to lose it, or go deaf, but I wasn't giving this soulless bastard this child. Not now, not ever.

“Ten grand? Fifteen?” I asked.

Castillo lined up his shot. “Last chance.”

“Sorry.”

There was a swishing sound in the grass. It sounded like a giant snake, and Castillo looked fearfully around him. Then he let out a startled scream.

I ducked as the gun discharged. Castillo continued to scream, and he did a complete revolution. Buster had bitten Castillo in the ass and was hanging off him like a Christmas ornament.

Fear-biters don't bark before they bite. My vet said that was what made Buster so dangerous and why he should be destroyed. Personally, I see it as an asset.

Two of Miami's finest appeared in the backyard with their weapons drawn. They cornered Castillo and disarmed him. I kept my distance, content to hold Isabella against my chest and let the scene play itself out. One of the cops said, “Is that your dog?”

“Sure is,” I said.

“Make him let the guy go, or I'll have to shoot him.”

Buster's hackles were up, and he looked twice as big as his sixty pounds. I slapped his nose, and he released Castillo and pinned himself to my side.

Margolin and Tommy came out of the house, covered in dirt.

While Tommy explained the situation to the cops, Margolin came over to me. She could not stop admiring the baby.

“She's beautiful. Look at those golden locks of hair.”

“Want to do the honors?” I asked.

She almost said yes, then shook her head.

“You do it.”

“You were first responder,” I reminded her.

“You cracked the case. You deserve it.”

“That's very nice of you,” I said.

Margolin put her hand on my cheek and looked deeply into my eyes. She was the kind of woman I find attractive, and her smile ignited emotions buried deep within me. As she walked away, my eyes followed her longer than they probably should have.

Babies are perfect; ask any parent. I walked up the street to Vasquez's BMW, admiring Isabella. I had saved a lot of kids, and it never got old.

Exhaust was coming out of the BMW's tailpipe, and the windows were shut tight. I still wore my wedding ring, and I used it to tap on the driver's window. Vasquez was deep in prayer and lifted his head.

“You can come out now,” I said.

Vasquez got out of the car saying, “Oh, my God, oh, my God,” with tears streaming down his face. I handed him his daughter, and he nearly dropped her. I realized he'd never held his child before, and showed him how to do it.

“Keep her head up,” I said.

“Like this?” he asked, cradling her head with his hand.

“That's it. Don't worry. She won't break.”

Holding Isabella against his chest, he pulled out his cell phone to call his wife. I started to walk away, and he stopped me.

“I'm sorry for what I said at the hospital,” he said.

“Don't worry about it,” I said.

“I was wrong.”

“Heat of the moment.”

He took out a business card and shoved it into my hand.

“That's my card. My cell phone number's on the bottom. Call me if you ever need anything.”

“That's not necessary, Mr. Vasquez.”

“I mean it. Anytime, day or night, call me. I won't ever forget this.”

I pocketed the card. When I was a cop, a lot of people I helped find loved ones made me similar offers, and I always turned them down. But times had changed. My life was a train wreck, and I needed all the friends I could get.

“Thank you, Mr. Vasquez,” I said.

I followed Tommy and Margolin to police headquarters in downtown Miami to get my money. Tommy paid me out of petty cash and did not make me sign a receipt. Then he and Margolin offered to buy me brunch.

I was tempted to say yes. I was hungry, and I wanted to celebrate with them. It was not every day that things went this well.

But there was the matter of the homicide trial that I was expected to appear at tomorrow. I was the prosecution's key witness, and I needed to spend time going over my testimony. I'd been told by the prosecutor that I would be grilled by the defense and would need to be ready.

I asked them for a rain check. Tommy said okay, while Margolin just smiled with her eyes. She was a nice lady, and if I hadn't been clinging to the falsehood that my wife and I would someday reunite, I would have asked her on a date.

Outside, in the visitors' parking lot, I found a uniformed cop standing beside my car. It was the same cop who had threatened to shoot my dog if he wouldn't let Castillo go.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“That's some dog you've got,” the cop said.

I didn't know if he meant this as a compliment, and grunted under my breath.

“You thinking of breeding him?” the cop asked.

“Actually, I was going to neuter him.”

“Get puppies first,” he said.

“You want one?”

“Yeah. I'll give you a hundred bucks for one of the males.”

“He's a purebred Australian shepherd,” I said.

“Two hundred,” he countered.

I was desperate enough for cash to take the guy's name and number. As I climbed into my car, Buster stuck his head into my lap.

“You just might get laid,” I told him.