Running to Oblivion

“Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Trevor glanced to the side of the table. A dark-haired man in his early forties stood holding a copy of the Miami Herald, the right breast of his wrinkled Puma track jacket undulating briefly to expose a holstered Glock pistol. His deep brown eyes were beset by a winnowing of crow’s feet, frat-boy grin failing to mask his fatigued countenance. He nodded to the empty booth across from Trevor. “Care if I join you?” Trevor shook his head reluctantly, souring at the invasion. He focused back on the paper, grabbing his fork and spearing another wedge of pancakes. The waitress came by and the man ordered coffee, smiling and thanking her by name as she left. He sat back in the booth and rubbed his eyes, prying a yawn from the smirking lips. He nodded toward the pancakes. “I would have gone with the steak and eggs myself. Marvell, the cook here, he’s been making it for close to twenty years, got it down to a science. Sirloin so soft it falls off the bone, toast on the side… Probably don’t make anything like that up in New York. More of a quiche town, I’d imagine.” “You here to kill me or arrest me.” “You have a preference?” “At this point, no,” Trevor said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Made that many enemies.” “My share. What about you.” “My father used to say enemies were just friends in transition.” “What’d he do for a living?” “Banker.” “Explains a lot.” “That it does,” the man said, tapping his finger on the table. Trevor put down the napkin. “So which is it.” The man grabbed the salt shaker and poised it between his thumb and index finger, inspecting the crystals. “If it was the first, you’d have already known.” “The latter then.” “For what? That thing in Central Park?” He placed the salt shaker down and applied the frat-boy grin once again. “I’m not the principal breaking up fights at recess.” The coffee came. He received it with gratitude, adding two cremes followed by two packets of sugar and stirring them with his spoon. “Then what are you here for.” The man brought the coffee to his lips, blowing a ripple across its ebony surface. “To save you.” “Save me?” “Yeah.” He took a sip and set the cup on the table, hand fast to the handle. “From what? My accusers? The media?” “Yourself.” He nudged his paper toward Trevor. “This edition’s better.” Trevor placed his fork down and grabbed the paper, unfolding it to find a small yellow packing envelope. He opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of photos, reviewing the events of the past few days in visual form: jogging on the beach; with Foster outside Esteban’s home; the cafe with the girl. He held each for a moment before laying them down methodically on their face and grabbing another. “You’re not a good ghost, counselor.” “Who are you with?” The man reached inside his coat and flopped a black leather holder across the table. Trevor read the identification card next to the badge. “D.E.A.,” he said, sitting back in the booth. “I guess I should feel honored.” “You should,” the agent replied. “I don’t get up this early for just anybody.” “Am I a suspect in something?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know.” Trevor pushed the pictures back across the table toward the man. “You better have some idea, Agent Bertram. I don’t appreciate being a part of your Kodak moment.” Dallas Bertram’s tanned cheeks tightened, grin gone. “There’s a man in Manhattan right now taking his breakfast through a straw. Finish your food, counselor. We’ll discuss your impositions later.” He paused, grabbed the salt shaker again. “Now as far as your involvement in anything, I was hoping you’d enlighten me.” “Enlighten you.” “That’s the idea.” Trevor placed the fork down in the syrupy plate and sat back. “Two weeks ago, I got a call telling me my wife had thrown herself off a ten story building. Five days later the firm I gave my life to for eight years dismissed me for something called ‘a difference in philosophy’ and left me with a severance not worthy of a common bum. My friends don’t return my calls and every media outlet across this country has seen fit to dance on the shattered pieces of a reputation I spent years constructing. And now I come down here to clear my head and I’m confronted by Miami’s finest implying I might be involved in a drug conspiracy. You want enlightenment, Agent Bertram? Enlighten me. I’m the one in the dark.” “You know Sylvio Esteban.” “In passing.” “In passing?” “I met him socially, once. It was no big deal.” “Big enough to have your buddy working our New York office for information.” “A man needs to know who he’s dealing with.” “What about Alejandro Rocha.” “Who?” “Alex. El Principe Blanco. The White Prince.” Trevor did not reply. “Luis Tota. Manuel Rocha. In passing also, I guess.” “I assume there’s a point to this.” “For a man on vacation you’ve managed to mingle with some pretty interesting company. These guys aren’t selling salsa lessons down at Arthur Murray.” “I’ve dealt with men like this all my life. It’s my business, what I do. They’re comfortable with me. They appreciate my confidence.” “That a confidence you share with your brother?” Trevor paused. “This conversation is over, Agent Bertram.” He re-gripped the fork and focused back on the newspaper, slicing an edge of the pancakes. “Go shop for your dirt somewhere else.” “You enjoy being a private citizen, Mr. Mackey?” “Are you threatening me, Agent Bertram?” “Threats are emotion,” Bertram said, taking another sip of coffee. “What I have they take to grand juries.” “You want to indict me for a conversation at a nightclub, a lunch date, go ahead,” Trevor replied indignantly. “You’ve got that and some pictures. Put that in front of a grand jury, see what you get. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish my breakfast.” “By all means.” “Thank you.” Trevor picked up Sports, flipping the page and folding it back in half to lie flat on the table. “I gotta ask you one more thing.” “What?” Trevor asked, rattling the paper down to look at him. Bertram nodded toward the window. “You always travel with armed escort?” Trevor peered through the tattered white window blinds until he spotted two Dade County Sheriff’s Office patrol cars in the parking lot, positioned on either side of his Mercedes. He sat back in the booth and sighed, rubbing his temple. “Celebrities tend to draw a crowd, counselor,” Bertram said, taking another sip of his coffee. “The price of fame.”