WaterWay -- Chapter 7
A Change in Plans
By: WaterLuv@etzine.com   Copyright 1996, by ET!zine   All rights reserved

The first slanting rays of the sun, sliding unstained through the bedroom window, brought us to awareness of Saturday morning.  The trade winds were awake already, their cool Atlantic scent ruffling the chintz curtain, fanning a Florida morning to life.  The sky, with its rose tinted clouds at the far reach of the sea, broad crepuscular rays shooting across the heavens from the horizon out past the beach, was a masterpiece fully worthy of the beauty that is Key West.  Parrot heads, this is what it's all about.  Without this sunrise, how could Jimmy Buffet find the lyrics and ambiance to teach the easy-going Margaritaville life?

As I bustled about the kitchen, the heady aroma of fresh-ground Colombian coffee added to the day's wake-up call.  In the garden outside the kitchen window, a wind chime was singing its soothing litany to the breeze.  I was busy with morning work, watching over the coffee preparation, heating some croissants.  But I was distracted by a strange new noise, added to the chimes in the garden.  There was a constant background chatter out there, a 'guk-guking' sound.  Taking time to peer out, I was amazed to find three lesser flamingoes gathered around the garden pond, terrifying the koi, but threatening only the algae that I had planned to attack next weekend in any case.  How they came to be here, I couldn't even guess, but they added a mystique to this special morning.  Usually, when new wildlife arrives in my garden, I do what I can to feed and welcome my guests.  My culinary skills were not well developed when it came to entertaining filter feeders, however.  For the flamingoes, all I could do was maintain their safe haven lest they be sent back to some tourist attraction where they would be placed on public display.

We had a 10:00 AM flight to Miami.  This island is gorgeous and fun, but not the best of venues for our planned shopping.  The sound of a car pulling onto our drive called us to quick action.  It was a bit early, but the limo must have come.  Jazmand ran to the door to ask the driver to wait.  She had no more than opened it when a muffled pop sounded outside.  The door frame exploded into splinters, flying into a clutter on the living room floor.  Jazmand screamed and lurched backward.  The rending squall of tires burning out, and the roar of a powerful engine floorboarded, split the calm morning air.  I rushed to the door in time to see a blur of a disappearing black car, all the windows darkened, skidding around the hedge at the end of the drive.  Jazmand screamed "You muthafucking pig, Rashad! You Bastard! . . . Bastard!" then broke down sobbing.  She appeared to be uninjured.  Shaken, but not hit.

We were both utterly incredulous.  In all my life, I had never witnessed anything remotely like this save in the movies.  We crowded around Jaz for a moment, comforting her.  For someone who'd just narrowly escaped death, she was amazingly in control.  Her shaking, which I'd first read as fear, I saw now was almost unconditional anger.  She at least thought she knew who that was in the dark sedan, and she was madder than a hornet that they'd done this.

"OK Jazmand, what the Hell's going on?" I asked her.

She just stared. .  I didn't get any impression she planed to hide the facts.  It seemed more like she was still too mad for words.  Instead, she gawked mutely at the shattered wooden molding.

As if enough weren't already happening, the limo pulled up and honked.

"Can we just get in the car, first?" Jaz asked.  "Let me have just a minute to calm down, then I'll tell y'all who I think that was, and what's on his mind.  I never thought he'd go that far."

I was thinking we should call the local police, but that option was taken out of my hands.  Within a minute of the limo's arrival, a police cruiser pulled in and two officers disembarked, hands on weapons.

"Shit," Jazmand said.  

I gathered from her remark and her grimace that she'd have preferred this morning's action didn't get the attention of the police.  Well, too late for that.  It has.

Walking out into the front yard, I greeted the driver of the squad car, a tall and lanky Cary Grant look alike.  "Morning officer."

"I'm officer Delancey," he announced, ignoring my hand outstretched for a greeting.  "Is everybody OK here?" he asked, with more than a little suspicion on his face.  "We got a shots-fired call." 

"Yes, thank God we are all fine.  Somebody took a pot-shot at my front door a few minutes ago.  We were just coming out on the way to the airport.  That's what the limo's here for."

"Well, I'm glad you are all safe.  I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you a few questions, though.  You may want to call your air carrier and modify your travel plans," he said.  It was not in the tone of a suggestion.  It was more like an order.

"Thanks," I said with a clear ring of sarcasm in my voice.  Then thinking better of it, I smiled a bit and explained, "It's just that the three of us had really been looking forward to this trip.  This is unnerving, getting shot at, and having to cancel plans and all.  Still, it beats letting this goon get away with it.  Who knows, next time he might take more time to aim?" In an afterthought, I added, "Shall I send the limo driver on?"

"No, we'd like to ask him a few questions too.  He may have seen the car that the shooter used."

The other officer, a balding man with a distinct paunch trying to overflow his belt, was already on his way to the now nervous looking limo driver.  Officer Guy Isidore, two years from retirement, would pass on the bad news that the driver must be briefly detained for questioning.  I dispatched you, Mary, to call Paradise Transpo and reset our flight schedule, as well as that of their driver.

That done, the two officers gathered the four of us together and explained that there were some routine questions they had to ask in any shots-fired case, particularly where there was the possibility of attempted murder involved.  They would, we learned, also have to send some people from the crime lab come out and examine the area, including the door frame, for clues.  Ugh.  I knew the bullet had torn into the wood well inside the door.  I'd have to be at home, or call in the maid to watch over things while they investigated.  

First, the officers got names, addresses, telephone numbers, all our personal data from each of us.  Then they started their cross examination with the limo driver, who turned out to be the source of the shots-fired call to the police.  It was probably our good fortune that put Delancey's squad car within a block of our house when the call came in.  If we had already left, who knew what the gendarmes might have done to my house, garden and new-found flamingoes?

As I listened to the details the driver could provide, I carried on a background process of considering how to salvage something of our weekend.  My upset at having someone use us for target practice was considerable.  If the jerk succeeded in wrecking all our plans, the day would be that much the worse in my mind.  Still, I knew that the incident might have the two of you feeling that this was not the time for play.  No matter, I thought.  Whatever we do for the rest of the weekend, I'd rather we do something other than hang around waiting for the crime lab to disassemble the house.  I asked the heavyset officer, who wasn't doing much talking, if I could call my maid to cover for us later, after our debriefing was done.  With his leave, I put a call in to Juanita, hoping she'd be home on an early Saturday morning, a day she had off.  She answered on the fourth ring, sounding breathless.  She'd been out running with her dog, and heard the ring from the front walk, she explained.

I explained our situation to her, leaving some of the more lurid details about our intended activity for her to guess, and asked if she could come in, double-time pay, and give us a break from the crime scene.  I knew she was trying to gather money for her son's schooling, and could use the extra income.  Sure enough, she said she'd be delighted.  Her conversation was full of comforting, reassurance, and solicitous concern for our welfare.  Either a very good employee, a great person, or an experienced liar, I thought.  Knowing Juanita as well as I did, I figured it was mostly the first two with a smattering of explanation three thrown in for good measure.

The limo driver was explaining that he had more seen than heard the shot, and that he'd seen the car tearing away right after the shot was fired.  He told the police that the car was a black Lexus with smoked windows, very dark so that he couldn't make out anything of the driver or even tell if there were any other passengers in it.  He'd seen the barrel of the weapon poked from the window, saw the blast, and the damage to the door.  Heard just a muffled pop.  The officer asked for a description of the weapon, but all he'd seen was the barrel.  This, he described as being, " . . . really big, maybe an inch and a half in diameter."

The description of the car and weapon jibed perfectly with what I could provide.  I'd only seen the car and the gun for a moment before the driver sped off, but I noticed how large the barrel was.  A silencer, I suggested, judging from its appearance and from the minimal noise that the shot had produced.  As to the car, I couldn't provide any details.  Just that it was a black late-model sedan, luxury looking.  It had plenty of horsepower, judging from the way it had shot out of the drive.  And the windows were darkened.

Jazmand was next in the interrogative spotlight.  She provided little in additional details.  Only that the car was already parked on our semicircular drive and a bit past being parallel with the front of the house, already aligned to make a dash for the front gate, when she opened the door.

I noted, as she was relating this, that she didn't mention the name she'd shouted in her initial anger and fear.  Rashad, I remember she had called him.  Perhaps she was not so sure that's who it was and didn't want to chance implicating an innocent man.  Perhaps she had some wild idea to handle this herself instead of letting the authorities do it.  I didn't know her intentions, but decide to let her take control till I had a better understanding of what she was up to, and what she was up against.  It seemed to me that the shot was meant for her, not you or me.

"Mary," the fatherly Isidore proceeded, "what did you see?"

You amazed the rest of us with your level-headed observations.  You had just a flash of a view from the door, arriving there just before I did.  Both the police and the rest of us were pleasantly surprised at the detailed description you were able to provide of the weapon.  

"It was shorter than a regular rifle," you said.  "It didn't have the wooden piece that goes back to the shoulder, the butt.  It stopped in a handle like a pistol grip right by the trigger.  And it had a long, curved clip."

"How long would you say the clip was?" asked Delancey.

"Oh, nearly twice the length of the pistol grip, and thicker than the grip, too," you replied.  "And it had the big center barrel like they said, but it had two shorter, smaller diameter barrels.  One was over the main barrel, and the other under it."

"An Uzi," Isidore said.  "That's gotta be an Uzi.  It'll take the boys in forensics a month to figure it out, but that's what the weapon was."

"And one more important thing," you interjected, beaming proudly.  "I got part of the license number of the car.  It started with NLT and then some numbers, and I think a letter on the end."

At this revelation, all of us were incredulous.  How did you see so much so fast in the midst of such pandemonium.  Obviously, your powers of observation are tops.  I made a mental note that I'd have to factor that knowledge into your training.

"Florida tags?" Isidore asked.  

"I think so," you replied.

"Good.  We'll check that out," the portly officer said, and immediately radioed in to police headquarters with a description of the car.  The police in the area would be on alert.  Perhaps they'd catch the gunman immediately.  Somehow, though, I doubted it.  This didn't seem like the act of some teenage thrill seeker.  More like a professional hit man.  I guessed the shooter would know how to quickly ditch his car and evaporate into the local scenery.

Delancey's words to the limo driver broke into my thoughts, "Mr. Hansen, that's all for now.  If we need to get in touch, can we reach you through Paradise Transportation?"

"Sure," Hansen said, and added, "I hope you get the guy." With that, he strode toward the door, obviously relieved to be finished with this.  "If you're only going to be a bit, I can wait and take you down to the airport.  They will have held the charter," he called back over his shoulder.

In response to my pleading glance, Officer Delancey nodded, and I signaled to Hansen that waiting was a great idea.

Delancey almost smiled - or at least looked as if he was straining not to -- and said, "Oh, we'll get him." Somehow, I wasn't convinced by his demeanor that he was all that certain that they would.

Next, he turned his attention to us.  "Have any of you got anyone mad enough to want to scare the hell out of you?  Maybe somebody wants to get you to back off on something?" 

Not too surprisingly, none of us admitted to having any such relationships.  I was curious as to why he thought this may have been a deliberate scare, and I asked.

<UZI2.JPG>
The Uzi Assault Riffle - Shown here without the silencer that would, if installed, give the impression of a very large bore center barrel.

"If that was an Uzi," Delancey explained, "Then the shooter could have sprayed your front door with a 30 round clip before he tore out.  From the sound of it, this was a professional.  I think, if he'd really wanted somebody dead, he'd have fired more than one shot."

Delancey's logic sounded solid as Gibraltar to me.  Perhaps this Rashad had some plan for Jazmand, and she was not going along.  I was certainly looking forward to quizzing her about it.

As I was pondering this, Juanita arrived in time to the departure of the two officers.

Finally, all the questions and delays behind us, instructions for the weekend left with Juanita, we were out the door.  Hansen, the driver, jumped out and graciously opened the back of the car for the three of us.  Watching you bend to enter, your rounded hips so fetchingly outlined in your clingy, knit skirt, my mind was soothed from the cares of today.  Next, Jaz bent her fanny toward me, caressed by a light illusion-silk dress so diaphanous it ought to be illegal.  In the subdued light of the beach house, I hadn't realized just how transparent her skirt was.  With the sun streaming through it thus, and with a dark-brown hint of fanny crack showing that she had wasn't wearing panties, the look was nearly salacious.  Maybe, I mused, there's yet some hope for this weekend.

Hansen, the Paradise Transportation driver, whisked us out to the airport where a small jet was standing by, a charter from his company's service.  We would soon be airborne toward Miami, and, I hoped, toward some respite from the fears that this morning had brought us.  Even if that guy is a pro, I thought, he'll probably have a hard time following us to the airport and finding out where our charter flight is heading.  Now, I was doubly glad I went to the extravagance of traveling this way.  

<AIRLIMO.JPG>
Paradise Limo & Charter Jet at the Key West Airport.  Used with permission of Paradise Transportation, Key West, FL.

At the onset, it had been just a whim, taking a limo and charter jet instead of cheap transportation.  The car was out, because we would be bringing back, WaterWay, my new boat.  Taking delivery of it was the seed that planted the whole Miami shopping-spree idea.  

What was I thinking, spending money like this?  That's easy.  Having been no more than middle class all my days, I was ready for a taste of the good life.  Here I had two incredibly attractive young women interested in me, a man of fifty-two.  Yes, I do exercise.  I like to think of myself as reasonably good looking.  But I have no illusions about my own grandeur.  Before my novels were published, and the follow-on series deal and movie contract sealed up, I doubt the two of you would have dedicated much time to a fossil like me.  Back in my poor days, the young ladies at the University thought in terms of carbon 14 when it came to dating men of my age.  I knew clearly enough that, beyond my vivacious personality (NOT) and sparkling wit (SLIM CHANCE) you two were with me to help me enjoy the largess.  The deal seemed straightforward to me, and I had no question that I was getting value for value received.  So I was splurging a bit.  Still conservative at heart, though, I kept most of the bounty invested and earning returns, not spent in profligate projects.  But I had room in my soul for some fun, and now that my budget allowed it, I was determined to have it.

I was truly relieved when we were finally in the jet, seated, and the cabin door was closed.  It felt as if the plane's thin, aluminum body could somehow shield us all from the harsh threats this day had brought.  If not shield us, at least carry us far from the danger brooding in the dark behind the sinister, smoked windows of that Lexus.

For the first few minutes, we were occupied with taxi, take off jostling, and listening to instructions from the pilot.  Once things settle down for our brief flight, we were able to turn our attention to our own affairs.  

Both of us turned to Jazmand.  Time-to-tell-the-all was written on both our faces.

Jaz glanced blankly out the airplane window for some time, as if trying to collect jumbled thoughts.  Finally, she screwed up her courage and began.  "He's just some guy that keeps following me.  His name is Rashad Banton.  He got interested in me about two years ago," she explained, "when I worked for a time at an S&M club as a submissive.  He had ties to the owners.  I dated him for awhile.  But I was afraid of him.  I mean, I never thought he'd do anything like this morning.  I don't even KNOW that it was him, today.  But I bet it was.  I mean, who else?"

"Anyway, like I was saying, I was put off by his sadistic side.  I'm a natural-born bottom, OK?  But I don't bottom to tops who get off on hurting people.  I can only serve a master or mistress who can balance my interests and feelings with theirs.  Rashad gave me the creeps.  I felt like he could care less whether his sub got any pleasure from a scene, he just wanted to make sure he got his."

"So I tried to ditch him.  But he just wouldn't take no for an answer.  He kept following me around, turning up at this then that odd place.  I guess you'd call it stalking," she continued.

I was beginning to seethe listening to this, and Jaz suddenly looked over at me and visibly paled -- a look of pain disfiguring her lovely face.  I was not sure what was up, but I could see she was starting to cry.  Sliding into the seat beside her, I put my arm around her and brushed her tears away.  "Come on Jaz, you're not going to let an asshole like that get the better of you now, are you?" I asked.  "I know you're more of a fighter than that."

"It's not what he's doing to me that's getting to me," she said.  "It's how I brought it all down on the two of you that's making me sick with myself.  I thought you were angry with me.  I wouldn't ever have done anything I thought would put you guys in danger." 

At this she broke down in sobs.  It's not surprising that she'd be distraught, I thought.  She probably just needs to blow off some steam about what happened.  Reassure her that she's not standing alone in this mess.

You jumped up and joined the fray, consoling our distraught lover.  

"Angry with you?  Furthest thing from my mind.  You're just too sweet to believe, sometimes," I told her.  Jaz, a sucker for warm strokes, always brightened when you laid a genuine one on her.

"But I never thought he'd do anything like that," Jazmand wailed.  "He is a violent man, I know that.  But I didn't think he'd come after me."

"OK, OK, honey.  We're going to get through this," I said.

You squeezed in and pulled her head onto your shoulder, brushing her disheveled hair from her eyes.  She calmed like a baby rescued from a lonesome crib by a mother's arms.

"Now," I said after giving her a moment to recover, "what's this about his being a violent man?"

"That's why I feel so bad about it," Jaz answered through renewed tears.  "He's a drug dealer.  He's in some Jamaican gang, I think.  I should have known better than to get close to you."

"Hold on, now," I commanded, getting a bit emotional myself.  "Let's remember who's acting like a law breaking asshole here.  Certainly not you, darling.  Now you listen, woman.  Mary and I both love you," I said in my mock-stern master's voice.  "We're with you whatever this jerk decides to pull.  I mean, there's no way I am going to just stand by and let you go to him," I declared, with real conviction in the master persona this time.  "But I think you're right.  It was probably jealousy over Mary and me that drove him from stalking to shooting.  Knowing that might just prove useful."

"Mary, what do you think?" I asked.  "How should we handle this?"

You responded with the rational, safe answer, "Let the police handle it.  They'll get him."

"I don't think so," said Jazmand.  "They'll nail Jack the Ripper before they get anything on Rashad.  Besides, the officer said they figure he just shot to scare somebody.  And you know how much good the cops are with stalker cases.  They basically tell you to wait till he kills you, then file a report.  I've been through that whole mill for the past 18 months.  It's useless." With that, tears veiled over her sweet eyes again.

"Well, Mary's certainly got a point, Jaz," I suggested.  "Letting the police do their job is probably the politically correct thing to do.  But you've got a point, too.  That heavyset cop, Isidore, will probably retire before they get around to doing anything useful to solve this.  Ten to one the car was stolen.  They'll find it ditched somewhere, no prints, nothing.  The gun certainly wasn't registered to him.  The crime lab won't be able to trace the bullet.  He may have done the shooting, or he may have hired a hit man.  In either case, he probably didn't just miss, he put the bullet in the door to make a statement."

"And besides, when did I ever take the politically correct course?" Wow, this brought a smile from both your lips.  "No, I vote we fix it ourselves.  I vote we fix him so he'll never come within a mile of any of us again."

"You plan to have him killed?" Jazmand replied with new concern.  

"No, no, certainly not.  I'm no murderer, and I don't trust hired help for work like that.  But I've been thinking this through for a while now.  What if we pull a mission impossible on this guy and get him to back off?  But it involves some risky business.  I'm not about to force anybody to play this game.  When it comes to this kind of team, we're strictly a democracy.  Unanimous support, or we back off and leave it to Key West's finest."

Jazmand knew me well enough to know I was serious.  I could look at her and tell that she was game.  You, Mary, didn't look so certain.

"What do you plan to do?" you asked.

"A reasonable question," I answered,  "and one for which I don't yet have all the answers.  We're going to need to learn a lot about our friend and his Jamaican connections to pull this off.  But the essence of it is, we hoist him on his own petard."

"Ladies and gentlemen," the captain's voice over the speaker interrupted, with the beginning of his landing preparation speech.  We looked at one another, a renewed sense of both love and adventure in our eyes.  We made our preparations to land in Miami and continue our planning, and, just maybe, our weekend's fun as well.
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