Cameron Nation

The owners of the Oasis Café were extremely happy with their investment. The converted 1904 Victorian, which happened to be the oldest structure in Brevard County, continued to be the most popular restaurant in Malabar. The rave reviews advertised that the forty-two different beers on tap were the perfect marriage to their signature Florida Fritters and Jalapeno Hush Puppies. Set adjacent to the North Dixie Highway along the Indian River, every table provided a breathtaking view for residents to comfortably spend their retirement dollars in snow bird paradise. After placing the large manila envelope, fat with the cash and credit card receipts from the busy evening dinner shift into the drop safe, Pat Fortuno was now finished for the evening. He was still upset he had to fire the cute waitress, but he could not tolerate rude behavior to his best customers. Alone now as the last bus boy had left fifteen minutes earlier, he locked the back door and walked past the overflowing garbage containers to his car at the far end of the parking lot. He stopped to light a cigarette and check his watch, 1:00a.m. on the dot. As he took a deep drag, he thought about what he would be doing during his three day holiday vacation. Another new year, he could not believe it was already Nineteen-Ninety F…WHAP! Without warning he was knocked on the base of his skull and he crumbled forward to the gravel below. Two burly Cubans carried the body to the small craft dock and placed him in a waiting Carolina skiff. The vessel was slowly guided away by a third accomplice, taking a slight northeastern course toward the middle of the Indian River. The extraction was handled flawlessly. Working quickly, they undressed the 6’4” limp frame then roughly tied his hands and feet with duct tape and finished by stuffing a rag into his mouth and further securing it shut with the remainder of the all-purpose silver adhesive. A fourth accomplice onshore, drove Fortuno’s Honda Accord to a Hispanic neighborhood in Melbourne. There would not be many salvageable parts from a rusted out twenty-year old import. Under the Route 192 Bridge connecting Melbourne with Indialantic Beach, a Tides fishing boat waited for the slowly approaching smaller watercraft. On the open stern stood two men donned in black sweatshirts and yellow rubber fishing overalls. Skull caps also masked their faces. With long rubber latex gloves donning their massive arms they effortlessly yanked the limp body on board. The larger of the men then tossed the Cubans a brown paper bag. Compensation of $10,000 well earned for six hours of work. The cargo now secured, the captain also dressed in black, slowly eased the throttle forward and thrust the vessel away from the camouflage of the pilings. As the Tides picked up speed, it veered out of the northern mouth of the Indian River, banking east and finally cruising into the vastness of the Atlantic. An hour later, the boat idled, some ten miles off-shore. With sunrise still two hours away, the sky was black as ink. It was going to be a brisk day for late December but the water was unusually calm. Fortuno came to a few minutes later after Big Tony placed the open end of a plastic jug underneath his nose. Eyes still closed, he jerked his face, moving away from the smell of the noxious fumes. It took a few seconds for him to comprehend his restricted mobility then he popped his eyes open. Sally Nuts emerged from the lower galley. As he reached the top step, he peered over and mocked the old man laying there with his arms and legs hogtied from behind, revealing an old wrinkled body. He then looked into the bugged out eyes then spit in Fortuno’s face. “Not such tough guys now, are you?” Sally snarled. He completed his greeting by kicking him in the head with his steel toed boot. “Look you slimy piece of garbage, do you know why you’re here?” Big Tony’s deep baritone voice commanded as he reemerged from the galley demanding an answer from the old man. The old man shook his head rapidly, still not knowing why he was in this predicament. Then uncontrollably, he relieved his bowels, urinating down the front of his jackknifed bound lower body. They glared down at the yellow stream, looked at each other and laughed. “Ha. Look Sal, he pissed himself…..I always thought macho Don Juan types like you would be tougher than that.” Big Tony crouched down and placed a small picture in front of the Fortuno’s face while Sally Nuts grabbed his matted, soiled gray hair from behind and yanked his eyes to be level. “Hey….Let me ask ya my friend, you remember all of your conquests, right?” On cue, Tony flicked on a small flashlight. The illumination clearly showed a picture of a girl, no older than six or seven sitting on a younger looking Fortuno’s lap, his right arm wrapped around her shoulder. The little dark haired beauty was peering up at him, lips pouting with a sad expression. “Oh, so you do remember!” Tony seethed, watching as the old man suddenly realize what this torture was about. The captain then emerged peering at the quivering old man from behind Big Tony’s massive shoulders and then took the picture from his hand and ignited the edge. As it began to slowly flame it was tossed over the side, this monster’s memory in time sizzling on top of the calm surface of the Atlantic. Fortuno bucked his bound body, trying helplessly to escape his condemnation. Sally Nuts waited, entertained by the squirming for a few seconds, then hauled back and kicked him in the head. What a cowardly display, he thought. “Now, now, old man……We’ll have none of that…..It’s time for you to go to hell where you belong.” The shell of a man was curled up, whimpering with the side of his face resting in a puddle of piss. Big Tony got in on the action and slammed the steel enforced front of his right boot into Fortuno’s groin. “Field Goal, three points!” He laughed uncontrollably then coughed as he tried to catch his breath. Now working as a team, Sally Nuts gripped his huge hands down on Fortuno’s shoulders, his strength totally overpowering the old man. Big Tony smiled sardonically, slowly showing an eighteen inch long meat cleaver. He moved the deadly tool up to his victims face and without emotion he effortlessly grabbed a sagging earlobe and smoothly sliced it off. “Like butter baby… Now that’s how we do it, hey Sally.” He tossed the appendage overboard. “Hey, no fair my friend…I get to throw the next one over.” They both let out devilish laughs. Blood oozing down the side of his face, Fortuno’s tortured body began to convulse. Big Tony took no mercy, the pleasure clearly apparent as he began the task of dismembering the still live body. Bound feet held down, Big Tony chopped off at the ankle bones in one quick forceful motion. Fortuno writhed in excruciating pain but was unable to make any real noise through the muzzle of the duct tape. The Cubans had done a very good prep job. The shock to his system now too intense, with blood flowing quickly out of his lower extremes, he passed out seconds later, never to open his demonic eyes again. The burly pair systematically placed the bloody appendages into white plastic buckets and threw the sealed and weighted canisters overboard every few hundred yards. With the eastern sky coming to life, they picked up speed and the assassins meticulously scrubbed the boat clean, hosing down all the remnants of their victim into the dark cold waters. The vessel was left where it was “borrowed” at the Cocoa Beach Yacht Club six hours earlier. Changed into sweat suits, the trio walked casually to the entrance, past the chain linked fence and opened the door of a waiting Ford Bronco. They barely stopped during the twenty hour trip back to New York.