A Rock and a Hard Place: A Novel of Suspense

One

The sun swelled an angry blister over a bright and empty sea. An abandoned, cypress-framed structure was propped below on a rotting pier, teetering over what was actually a bay that opened out, could you follow the buoys, to the Gulf of Mexico.

It used to be a restaurant, this rectangle of cypress and tin along the water; a lobster painted over screenless doors made that deduction simple along with a more obvious clue oil-based in block letters beneath, KEY’S REST—. The remainder of the invitation had long since faded away, as had the lobster’s once-scarlet pincers. Seagulls still hovered outside the kitchen, though, as if remembering the shrimp heads and fish guts that long-absent cooks once tossed out the building’s wide-silled windows.

The windows were boarded up now. It was almost dark inside. But motes of dust drifted in the slender shafts of sunlight that fell like spears through the rusted roof. You could imagine stars shining brightly overhead, arranged in brilliant constellations. Orion over here, say, or over there the Big Dipper. The whole place seemed about to collapse. It was as if the building, long abandoned, was kept erect on columns of insubstantial illumination.

There were few things left to see below the star-studded ceiling, though Rita Hayworth was still glorious in a pinup above the bar. The bar once boasted a brass rail. Not much brass left now, though. A couple of cheaply framed glossies punctuated the walls—Perry Como, Billie Holliday, Sinatra. Elvis never played here. The easygoing young men and women who used to congregate at this place came home from the war listening to the Big Bands and the crooners. They’d lean from booths and barstools upholstered in bright red Naugahyde to drop dimes for Birth of the Beat and Black Magic. That was all before The King.

And now? Only two men inhabited the dining area’s sweltering interior. They were seated on backless chairs set to face across a card table. They had not come seeking steaks or seafood.

A Latin American dressed to the nines in a bone linen jacket and white silk tie dripped sweat as if regulated by a metronome. Large, solitary drops. Like from a gutter after a thunderstorm.

A middle-aged American slouched at his side of the table in a baggy, sweat-stained blazer that looked fashioned from polyester and catgut. A single, pencil-thin shaft of light burned a hole dead center in the laminated tabletop that separated Frank Sienna from his better-dressed companion. A gambler’s mask set like plaster over the American’s deeply lined face. A long silence. Frank retrieved a package of cigarettes from his blazer. A Zippo lighter came next—Semper Fi the inscription scrolled beneath an escutcheon embossed on a globe and anchor. Smoke soon coiled sinuously amidst the columns of light. Finally …

The Latin interrupted the perfect rhythm of his perspiration with a handkerchief.

Next month. You can have the rest next month.

That was not our arrangement. Frank shook his head.

It is all I can do. The Latin folded his handkerchief carefully.

It’s not how we’ve dealt in the past.

The merchandise was satisfactory. In the past.

Never had a problem before, Frank observed.

See for yourself. The Latin man returned the handkerchief to his jacket. And came out with a short-barreled machine gun.

It was an Uzi. The barrel was steady in the Latin’s hands and level on Frank’s heart … but there was no clip.

Sienna took a careful drag on his Marlboro. The Latin pulled back the Uzi’s bolt—breech cleared. Nothing in the chamber.

Sienna kept his attention resolutely on the smoke that writhed, now, in and out of the columns of sunlight that supported the roof. Looks fine to me, he said, nodding toward the firearm in his companion’s well-manicured hand.

The rifle, perhaps, the Latin agreed too amiably. "But where is the ammunition? One hundred fifteen weapons were to be delivered. And twenty thousand rounds of ammunition. Nine-millimeter, Parabellum. Standard load. You can see—we have no ammunition."

We sent the rounds. I know. Packed ’em myself.

The Latin smiled broadly. What you see is what we got.

The Latin offered the weapon for examination. Frank took the Uzi, tapped out a Marlboro for his companion.

You provide twenty thousand rounds of ammunition, the Latin went on unctuously. We make payment in full.

And next time, Hernando, Frank said, lighting the other man’s cigarette, what’ll be missing then?

I do not understand.

I’ve played this game before, compadre. This time you stiff me for ammo. Next time you’ll tell me we’re short on guns.

Frank snapped his Zippo open and shut. Open and shut.

Perhaps there can be another scenario. Hernando smoothed his silken tie.

It had better involve payment.

Suppose I disregard the ammunition I did not receive, the other man went on as if Frank hadn’t said a word. Then for the weapons I owe you…?

Forty-one thousand, Frank supplied. Plus transport, naturally.

Naturally. How much more for, say, two hundred and fifty thousand rounds of ammunition?

Quarter of a million rounds? Nine millimeter?

"Parabellum, sí. How much?"

Twelve thousand, about, for the rounds. Five to deliver. That doesn’t pay for the twenty I know damn well I already got you.

The Latin leaned across the table.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand rounds. Provide me with that, we can conclude our business."

What the hell? Frank returned the Marlboros to his blazer. And came out with a clip of ammunition. Why don’t we just finish our business right now?

Frank slapped the ammo home, locked back the bolt.

The Latin stared practically into the Uzi’s barrel. A long, long moment passed. And then—

Sienna emptied the Uzi on full automatic into the roof. New spears of light fell from fresh constellations tattooed overhead. The Latin man sat frozen on his backless seat.

A half million rounds. Sienna popped the clip free.

That’s twenty-five thousand dollars on top of what you owe me. Plus another five for shipping. Make it a half. At twenty-five plus. We’ve got a deal.

The Latin regarded the poorer-dressed American who sat across from him at the dead diner’s last available table.

Agreed.

Two

Up the coast from Mr. Key’s long-abandoned diner was a thriving, contemporary establishment. It was a pretty standard night at Ramona’s Restaurant, which meant that business was terrific. People were pouring in out of the heat. Ceiling fans paddled full tilt over customers distributed all the way from the bar that bordered one side of the dining area to the veranda that provided another border facing out to the gulf. Ramona had airconditioning, of course, but the fans kept up a pleasant, tropical breeze that made things seem cooler right off the bat. It was one of the little things that made people want to come and then come back.

The Baptists were drinking iced tea. Everybody else was drinking.

Newcomers tabled alongside regulars and there was Ramona. Working the crowd. Taking care of business. And there, too, seated by himself on the eve of his seventh anniversary, was Detective Barrett Raines. From across the restaurant you might judge Raines to be a bigger man than he actually was. Older perhaps than he actually was. A smidgeon under six feet, Barrett weighed in after his irregular bouts of belly work, bags, and runs at less than two hundred pounds. He carried a lot of dignity for a man in his mid-thirties, and a lot of muscle on a chassis that had seen more than its share of bodywork. Barrett was also distinguished, this particular evening, by the color of his skin; he was the only black human being in a room filled with whites.

Ramona winked. Barrett acknowledged with a smile and a nod. You could take most any Friday night, get about a half hour off U.S. 90 toward the coast, and find half the locals at Deacon Beach unwinding over some kind of seafood at Ramona’s SeaSide Restaurant. Barrett was not a bona fide regular anymore. He worked too many hours scattered over too many shifts and too much overtime for which, by virtue of his occupation and Florida’s Garcia Act, he was not entitled extra pay. It had created a problem at home, this stochastic and exhausting schedule. And Barrett’s wife worked, too, of course. So when the detective did get some time off, Laura Anne was busy herself, or asleep, or catching up precious time with their boys.

The twins, luckily, were fine, happy little first graders, due in no small part to the fact that Barrett and Laura Anne were righteous about family time. But Barrett knew that he and Laura Anne also badly needed a few minutes to themselves. The first couple of years it had been so easy. Evenings at Ramona’s with friends were a big part of their marriage. But that was before Laura Anne started teaching music at the high school and then piano lessons on the side, and before Barrett, pressing hard to get his detective’s badge, began taking the shifts and overtime no one else wanted.

He was trying to back off a little. Seven years on the job ought to cut a man some slack. Particularly on an anniversary. In fact, Barrett had actually planned to be with Laura Anne this evening, had planned as would any normal man to relax with his wife on the eve of seven years of marriage. But Taylor Folsom had called in sick, and even though Barrett was already scheduled to work the midnight-till-dawn shift somebody had to cover Taylor’s three-till-midnight.

Go ahead, Laura Anne sighed. Friday’s never a good night for me anyway. And I’ve got grades to figure.

We’ll go out tomorrow, Barrett promised and went off to work Taylor’s swing shift and his own graveyard back-to-back. That was sixteen straight hours. Provided nothing happened that generated paperwork.

It was a bad night for Taylor to get the runs, or get laid, or whatever he was doing. Fortunately the rules of the department did allow a man to piss and eat, so around ten o’clock Barrett pocketed his beeper, crawled out of his unmarked sedan and settled in Ramona’s for a bite of seafood. He never got tired of the various concoctions of seabass or snapper that Ramona served up on mahogany plates that the health department still gave her hell for. He never tired of the pilau and biscuits and locally concocted mayhaw jelly that Ramona mixed curiously into her menu of otherwise ocean-spawned ingredients. Most of all, like any other red-blooded man in the place, married or otherwise, Barrett never got enough of an eyeful of Ramona herself.

Any banker will tell you that there are more failures in the restaurant business than in any other, and yet Ramona was making a killing. Barrett knew that the success he was witnessing wasn’t all due to the food, which was very good, nor to the sea breeze and ambiance that everyone around here took for granted. Nor was it due entirely to the service, which was excellent.

The secret ingredient was Ramona herself. Barrett heard Doc Hardesty say more than once that Ramona Walker wasn’t close to being a spring fashion. In fact, she’d just turned forty-two. You walked into her place for the first time, you’d see a woman damn near six feet tall with auburn hair that fell from shoulders wide as a lumberjack’s to a waist small enough you could circle it with your hands.

She had long dancer’s legs that she liked to show off from a split skirt. She had eyes green as emeralds. And she had one of those Lauren Bacall voices—low, throaty. Barrett traveled with Ramona on occasion on town business. They’d usually forsake Barrett’s unmarked sedan for her ’64 Thunderbird. (What the hell? The city paid a per diem either way.) Then they’d bolt down the road at seventy or eighty miles an hour with the top down, and as the wind hiked an already borderline skirt even higher up those long, long, long, ivory legs they’d listen to oldies on Ramona’s antediluvian eight-track until they reached an official destination in Tallahassee, usually, or sometimes Gainesville.

They’d pull up to a steamy curb. She’d stretch those gams getting out of her T-bird. Take two steps down the street. Heads would whip around as if jerked on a leash. Doc Hardesty used to compare Ramona to Helen of Troy. Faces launching ships. An odalisque in Priam’s harem. That sort of thing. But Barrett liked Taff Calhoun’s characterization better.

That woman, Taff would spit a wad of Red Man, could make a tadpole slap the shit out of a full-grown whale.

Ramona’d opened her place a dozen years earlier on a shoestring and a hotplate and now people came from all over to sample her homemade tartars and side dishes and eat the catch of the day. And look, of course. And flirt. Ramona knew how to do that. Even with married men. Nobody ever got jealous, either, which was astounding in a place as small as Deacon Beach.

Barrett was never quite sure where the customers came from. Every conceivable type roamed in. Tourists in cutoffs that chafed below their swimsuits and over their sunburns. Girls in tank tops. Guys in jeans. And then the locals would drop by, the men in their modest, short-sleeved Arrow shirts, the wives in blouses and skirts or sometimes a dress from Penney’s.

There was a smattering of professional folks, naturally. Even a place as small as Deacon had to have a few. And so amidst the surfers and catalog dressers you’d see a suit or two drop in with a well-set spouse in an evening dress. One of the first things Barrett noticed when he started coming to her place was that Ramona Walker never spent any more time with those highrollers than with the other folks. She’d smile. She’d flirt. She’d show the moneyed gentleman and his lady to whatever table was available. And then she’d turn away, as though distracted by the dart game which always was going near the bar, and as she’d turn she’d just brush the suit’s vest with a hand or sometimes slide over his summer twills with one of those rock-hard, ivory legs.

Even the most homely waitress coming in behind that kind of introduction could report ten-dollar tips.

Ramona was very good to the folks working at her place. Barrett discovered that particular aspect of Ramona’s character over supper (translated to dinner anyplace else) one evening while discussing his own financial affairs with Ramona’s accountant. Ferris Boatwright was a huge hippopotamus of a man, deeply into Southern Baptist politics, which were Byzantine, and deeply into wearing his religion, if not his heart, prominently on his elephantine sleeve.

Boatwright was a man a little too certain of his relationship with God to make Barrett comfortable, but Ramona assured him that the doughboy deacon was a first-rate accountant. And Barrett needed some counsel. He and Laura Anne were both salaried. Both would have, if they stayed healthy, modest retirement benefits. But Barrett was worried it wouldn’t be enough. He had supported his mother through a long and expensive illness. By the time Mama Raines mercifully died, her savings were gutted and so were her son’s. Barrett worried about aging, dying, and passing along a similar debt to his own children. Cops, after all, could have their careers cancelled early. And even if he and Laura Anne worked another twenty years Barrett had no faith that Medicare, Social Security, and a modest retirement could outlast a serious illness, an old-folks’ home, or a determined Republican.

And so one Friday Barrett met Ferris Boatwright at Ramona’s. Ferris explained the various options, including trust funds for the twins, and a Keough for Barrett and Laura Anne which left earnings generated from their salaries tax-deferred until they were actually used. In the course of explaining the details of that arrangement Barrett found that Ramona had set up Keoughs herself. Not just for her personal estate. Turned out that Ramona required even her part-timers to divert a portion of their income to Keough accounts. Even her black part-timers.

Not many people in Mr. Raines’s neighborhood worried about part-time help at all, much less their black part-timers. Deacon Beach occupied a coastal strip of pine and sand west of U.S. 90 about an hour south of Tallahassee. Taylor County was not generally regarded as a region progressive in race relations. The head of the Ku Klux Klan used to headquarter in Perry, which was only about twenty miles inland from Deacon. Even though the school was long integrated, housing laws passed, and voters’ rights extended, the white population in North Florida still treated blacks, for the most part, like second-class citizens. Any white businessman, for instance, explaining why he didn’t hire many Negroes, or coloreds, would tell you that blacks from the Beach were undereducated. That was true. It was also true that many of the whites working for those businessmen were undereducated—many lacked even basic working skills—but those contradictions didn’t make a dent in the region’s carefully constructed web of