Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Bill Larson

Closing Costs

Don pulled his Ford F150 diagonally into a parking place on Park Avenue, the main street through the little island village, near the back door to his office. He climbed out of his pick-up, walked the ten feet to his door and inserted his key into the lock. Someone down the block hollered the name, "Jack!" It triggered images of his former lifestyle. Drug trafficking seemed so dirty now, dealing with amoral scumbags, the frequent brushes with death and the constant risk of prison. He had escaped that life fifteen years earlier. Known by his real name back then, Jack Bridges commanded respect—such as it existed among traffickers. Being the offspring of a Cuban mother and a commercial fisherman who had immigrated to Tampa from Texas, Jack survived the mean streets of Ybor City, where he graduated into the thriving cocaine business.

Thursday dawned warm and humid. Don snatched his sunglasses off the breakfast counter as he left the house for the short two-mile drive to his office. He pushed the button on his auto entry truck key, and the lock clicked its release. From behind young Donnie ran toward him yelling, "Wait, Daddy." Don turned in time to sit his briefcase down, catch his only son in his open arms and lift him all in one motion. "Can we go fishing when you get home? Please, Daddy."

"Sure we can, big guy. I'll see you about 4:30. Okay?"

"Promise, Dad?"

"I promise. Now go back in the house and tell mommy to plan an early dinner so we can go fishing. Now, Daddy has to get to work."

"Okay, Daddy. I love you."

"I love you, too, honey."

"See you, Daddy." Don waited to pull out of his driveway until his son disappeared into the house.

Business seemed good for the month of August, traditionally a quiet month. This promised to be a good day. An escrow closing at one o'clock meant a commission in excess of thirty thousand dollars. The closing scheduled at a mainland bank meant Don would be driving off island. As he turned the key in the lock, the abrupt intrusion of his past surprised him. He pushed open the door. His spirit calmed. The office had become his home away from home. He sat behind his antique desk and straightened the little, gold-framed picture of his wife, Jo Ellen, and the kids. Donnie, Jr. had his mother's big, brown eyes and Bethany, his baby girl, had grown so much since this picture that another needed to be taken soon.

Don didn't love his job, but he certainly liked doing what he did. He consistently earned over a hundred thousand each year and often a lot more. This landed him the office with the back door, a spiff for the top producer. Love it or not, he knew how to sell real estate. This had to be the good life, living and working on a beautiful barrier island off the southwest Florida coast, surrounded by azure waters and glistening white-sand beaches; possessing a great house and blessed with a good wife and children. He could go home for lunch if he chose or take off in his boat and do some fishing. The sub-tropical setting appealed to him; the weather, the foliage and the warm breezes.

Memories pressed in on him. Starting out in the drug business, he had been befriended by Pedro Alvarez, a Mexican national with all the right connections to the Mexican cocaine pipeline. Jack's quick mind served him well in the business, and it hadn't taken long for him to become Pedro's top man on Florida's west coast. Then one day something happened; a deal gone badly, and Jack escaped death by sheer luck. From that time on, fear became almost palpable in Jack's life, and when he got his chance to bail out, he took it. It didn't matter that it cost Pedro five million dollars. Jack knew that if Pedro ever caught up with him he would kill him, but he had to get out. He spent three years on the run before he settled quietly in a little southwest Florida coastal town under the assumed name of Don McCauley. A new social security card and driver's license presented no problem to someone with his experience.

Don tossed his sack lunch, keys and sunglasses on his credenza and took a seat in front of his computer. He reached down with his left hand and pressed the button to start the boot-up process, while with his right hand he reached over to press the intercom button on his phone to inform the front desk of his presence. Margie's southern accent crackled back. "Thank you, honey." His old life now forgotten for the moment, he scanned his email and went on line to check his listings.

About one thirty that afternoon, the front desk attempted to send a call from the Englewood Branch of Bank of America back to Don's desk. Margie informed the caller that Don wasn't picking up. The caller identified herself as an escrow officer with the bank and told Margie that Don had been expected at a closing and hadn't arrived. She put the caller on hold and rang back to Don's office. Receiving no response, Margie went back to the caller. "Don's not answering, honey, I'll bet he's on the way over there." Satisfied with Margie's response and assured that Don was most probably in route, the escrow officer said she would proceed with the closing and agreed that Don would probably be arriving shortly.

Margie took her empty coffee cup and headed toward the back office area so that she could look up Don and get coffee on the same trip. Knocking on the frame of the open office door, she continued without pause into Don's office. She immediately saw disarray that Don wouldn't tolerate; a half-eaten sandwich atop a napkin on his desk calendar, his keys lying carelessly on the credenza and a file scattered on the floor by his back door. As she asked around the office if anyone knew of Don's whereabouts, her uneasiness grew. By four o'clock the local Sheriff's Office had been notified of the situation, made more unusual by the fact that Don never missed an appointment and his pick-up truck remained where he had parked it that morning.

###

The pleasant aroma of Cuban bread greeted the two swarthy, young men as they walked into the Columbia Restaurant in the Ybor City section of Tampa at seven that evening. Their eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light as they looked about and saw the white-haired Mexican sitting to the back of the main dining room in a darkened corner. He beckoned to them. As they approached, he stood and hugged each one in turn. "Please take a seat." The old gentleman spoke softly. "Did all go well, amigos?"

"Very well," Benito replied, his broad smile turned up the corners of his well-trimmed mustache. The larger more muscular young man with Benito didn't smile. He just looked down at the table.

Benito continued, "Nobody saw us going in his back door. They will never find the body, Señor, not if they looked for the next hundred years."

"Excellent, Benito. You have done well. First I buy you and Emiliano dinner and then I settle up with you. Bien?"

"Muy bien, Senor Alvarez."

"Waiter, you may now take our orders, we are ready to eat."

Copyright © 2004 Bill Larson

About the Author
Bill Larson does his writing on the southwest coast of Florida. When he's not writing, Bill sells real estate. He has been published in Palm Beach County Magazine in 1988 and in a local magazine, Images, on two occasions in 1992. After a self-imposed sabbatical, he began writing seriously again this past year and had two pieces published in an online magazine in 2003, a short story and an article on grammatical construction. He makes his home with his wife, Janice and son, Jeffrey, in Cape Haze, Florida.