Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

At least that’s what everybody called them behind their backs. Humbierto, Diaz, and Louis ran the Cuban bolita in Little Havana. Never was clear who the big cheese was, but I always suspected Huey. Diaz and Louis always dressed elegantly — suit and tie, shined shoes, the whole gangster bit. Huey was different. Braced on either side by the well-manicured Dewey and Louie, Huey stood before me in my own office smiling at me under his ragged, burrito-infested mustache, sporting ragged denim shorts and shower thongs. His English was pretty good.

“Where he es, Brokenbreedge?” Huey wanted to know.

I went around my desk and sat down. “I got one word for you guys: Adios!”

I knew they probably wouldn’t mess with me. They were businessmen first. As such, they were aware of my own reputation and connections. They commenced to argue among themselves in Spanish. Even in Spanish the word relámpago is tough to mistake. As the argument heated up, relámpago seemed to punctuate every other sentence.

It didn’t take long to figure out what was happening here. The head office of the Cuban bolita wouldn’t be out trying to collect from Tommy. They had knucklebusters for that. They were looking for Lightning Rod. That could only mean one thing. Lightning had made off with their collection money.

It fit together. Lightning was terrified of the coming hurricane, and Tommy was near broke. It seemed pretty clear that Tommy and Lightning had absconded with the swag.

Huey then asked me if I had seen Lightning Rod lately. I told him the truth: that Lightning and Tommy were here earlier but not now. The group pondered that for a bit, then left. They were still discussing the situation at the top of their collective voices well into the parking lot. There was no chance that Huey and company would bring the cops into this. Lightning was away clean, or so it seemed.

None of this was helping me at all. I made a call to George’s sister and told her I wouldn’t be coming for the trailer. I guessed the only thing left was to sit and brave it out. I made a call to Calder and talked to Jimmy Cox in security. I told him that Arnie’s horses were staying.

“We’re putting all the horses still here into the receiving barns where we can button up and keep an eye on them,” he told me. “You want me to have Swine take Arnie’s horses over now?” he asked.

I told him to go ahead. I called Arnie at the hospital, but he was in surgery. There wasn’t much left to do but amble over to the Surfer and wait for Buford. I clicked on the TV. Buford was still about eighty miles out but had speeded up. New predictions indicated Miami didn’t have seven hours left. It was now estimated to be less than three hours. As I watched, the television began to beep, and a message printed across the bottom of the screen. At the same time the now weary weatherman seemed reinvigorated.

“This just in from the Weather Center. Buford has veered sharply north. The indication now is that it will miss the Miami area... I repeat... Buford will miss the Miami area. Where, or if, it will come ashore has not been passed along to us as yet. Stand by; we will try to get a prediction on that.”

So Tommy had been right about why his numbers didn’t work. The hurricane wasn’t going to hit Miami. I locked up and went around the corner to the Surfer’s Bar to watch the outcome on satellite TV with a Budweiser in my fist. I made a mental note to get up early so I could tend to Arnie’s horses.

The next day word on the street was that Lightning had made off with over eight thousand dollars. In other news, Buford had come ashore briefly. The hurricane had veered in about a hundred twenty miles north of Miami at Hobe Sound, bounced around some, then headed northeast and out to sea. Later on in the day the news crew came on television to report the damage. For the most part it was just a few signs knocked down, with only one serious incident. There were few cars on the highway because of the relentless warnings. But it was reported that two Miamians driving a van with no radio did not receive any warning that the hurricane had veered north and was headed directly for them. On U.S. 1, just past Hobe Sound, their van was lifted and tossed into forty feet of Hobe Sound inlet water. Tommy, Lightning, the accordion, and the bag money went in the drink together. Only Tommy and Lightning came out. It was reported that the two behaved rather badly and had to be restrained by police from diving back into the tortuous sea to regain their possessions.

I still don’t know if all the hysteria is warranted — but it looks like there might be some merit in at least having a radio.

Claud by David Braly