Dead Street

“I didn’t raise any red flags. The organized crime bunch haven’t shown any interest. Yet. According to all recorded information, Miss Bettie Marlow died in the wreck of that truck in the Hudson River.”

“Than you’re the only one who knows she’s still alive.”

“You do,” Kinder said softly.

“So?”

“I understand that she has something heavy that could wreck mob operations.”

“That’s what the ones who grabbed her suspected, not knew.”

Kinder wiped his hand across his mouth and stared hard at me. He said, “I found out a certain Mafia family kept a close watch on all your activities for twelve years after her supposed death to see if you had acquired any information she might have had.”

“I didn’t acquire shit,” I said, “and the mob boys know it. They’re pretty efficient. We have our own sources inside their operations.”

“They haven’t given up, you know.”

I asked him, “What good would it do them to poke around here, even if they knew enough to? Bettie Brice has lost every trace of her memory. There’s nothing she can say or do that could implicate organized crime any more. All that was twenty years ago.”

“But it isn’t over yet.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You’re here now.”

“Retired.”

“Noted.”

Invisible fingers seemed to walk up my back, nails leaving little dents in their trek, not hurting, barely annoying, but indicating something was there that I should recognize.

My voice didn’t quite sound like me when I half-whispered, “What do you know, Darris?”

A few seconds passed before he said quietly, “Nothing that would hold up in court.”

“I didn’t ask you that.”

“You know how cops are, Jack.”

“They’re all retirees here.”

“Sure. That doesn’t stop them thinking. They don’t say much, but they think, all right. They aren’t under orders here any more than you and I are. But we’re still cops and you don’t shake all that training and action. We still obey some rules that were never written.”

I grinned at him.

He scowled. “What’s so funny?”

“How come we’ll never be plain old civilians again?”

A faint grin twisted his mouth. “Would you want to?”

When I shook my head, the grin reached his eyes.

Then Kinder reached into his back pocket and brought out a small leather pad. He opened it, wrote a few things in it, took down some personal information related to my police work, then handed me the three sheets to sign.

I frowned at what I saw.

Kinder only smiled and nodded again. “I am authorized by the state of Florida to issue permits to carry a concealed weapon to properly trained personnel. I assume you have your own personal pieces with you.”

“A Colt Combat Commande... .45 caliber, a Colt 1911 model and a regulation old fashioned Police Co... .38 revolver. If you want samples of fired slugs, I’ll get them to you.”

“Nice, but not necessary. However, I’ll appreciate the effort. There’s a range on the west end of the village.”

I studied the ice-blue eyes. “How come you don’t trust me, Captain Kinder?”

“They used to call you the Shooter, didn’t they?”

“Only the ones who stayed alive.”

Kinder’s response was to watch me close, a knowing smile on his lips.

“Everything was legal, buddy. Justified and approved,” I said.

An eyebrow hiked. “Sure got you one hell of a reputation.”

“In case you’re wondering about it, I have no intention of improving on it.”

A tiny shrug. “Good enough.”

“Now, can I ask you something else?”

“Sure.”

“Sunset Lodge has got the highest concentration of cops, firemen and even retired federal law enforcement in the USA. They have equipment here that most cities would envy.”

“Anything wrong with any of that?”

I shook my head. “No, but how did it get that way?”

“Sunset Lodge was founded by a wealthy man who had been abducted by the old Dutch Schultz outfit in NYC. Two dedicated police officers tracked down the abductors, rescued the victim after a wild shootout, during which both the cops were wounded. The well-off victim became such a great friend of the police, and, by association, the firemen who had assisted in his rescue, that this place was his gift to Civil Service retirees. If you qualify, cost here is minimal. We are independent and well-funded. Well-protected, too.”

“Good enough,” I remarked.

“You’ll learn more as you go along,” he said as he stood up. He handed me a card and told me, “I can be reached through any of these three numbers. Call me for any information.”

“Tell me something now.”

“Shoot.”

I smiled at his choice of word and said, “What’s with this Garrison Properties outfit down the road?”

“They’ve been in business for fifteen years. Some upper-echelon mobsters are among the retirees, but we have no evidence they’re any more influential in Garrison than the retired dentists and lawyers. Lately they’ve been trying to class up their act — expanding their land holdings and putting in major lots, putting up major housing. And trying to capitalize on this place, I’d say.”

“But it’s been around fifteen years?”