A Shark in Calle Ocho Read online

  Adan was a short, stubby man in his mid-forties. His hair was wavy and combed back. He had a patch of hair growing below his lower lip. His thick wire-rimmed glasses magnified his gray eyes. He breathed heavily due to years of heavy smoking. His fingernails were too long, and his fingers were nicotine stained. Adan looked up from his calculations and smiled, showing teeth that were the same color as his fingers.

  “Have we had a good Calle Ocho, boys?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Shark answered, Blowfish nodding in the background. “We have a wallet and jewelry.”

  “Good, good,” Adan said. “That’s my boy.” He stretched out his hand over his desk. “Give it to me.”

  Shark obeyed, placing the wallet and watch into the greedy hands of their boss. There was a pause. Adan gave them their cut, but he continued to stare at them. His gaze began to focus on Blowfish. Shark could sense his friend’s increased anxiety.

  In a low, menacing tone, Adan broke the silence, clinched his fist, and said, “Why did you cheat me?”

  “Oh please, Mr. Adan, I am sorry,” Blowfish cried. “I just got greedy. The wallet had so much money.” Blowfish turned to Shark, his eyes wide with fear, and explained, “It was last Wednesday. I went out by myself and scored a wallet off this old rich lady. It had so much money,” he repeated, and started to shake. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  Shark was helpless. He was horrified that his friend would steal—especially from Adan, knowing the consequences. Shark had a sick feeling in his stomach. His friend was in trouble, and he silently cursed him for his stupidity. He looked at his friend, who was about to burst into tears.

  Adan rose from his desk slowly, powerfully and totally in control. His wrinkled gray shirt and faded yellow cotton slacks moved with his body.

  His fist and teeth clenched with anger, he said, “No one cheats me.”

  He walked slowly and menacingly around his desk and stepped close to Blowfish, who was reduced to a blubbering pile of nerves. “I gave you money!” he screamed, grabbing the boy’s cheeks with his stained hands. “I gave you a place to belong! I treated you like a son—and how do you repay me?” His hands moved from Blowfish’s cheeks to his throat. He looked into Blowfish’s terror-filled eyes. He was gasping for breath that was not there. His arms were flailing wildly, grasping for nothing.

  Shark had to do something. His friend was making horrible gurgling noises, but what was even more terrifying was the noise coming from Adan. He was giggling like a love-struck young girl, but it was only inflicting pain that he loved.

  Shark’s hands, up till then around his head in confusion, dropped to his waist as a sense of hopelessness came upon him, but as they fell he felt something hard in his pocket.

  The dagger!

  Shark knew what he had to do. As he gripped the handle, it seemed to shoot energy up through his arm, giving him even more strength. He walked to Adan with his eyes on his prey. Adan’s back was turned to Shark, which would prove to be a fatal mistake.

  He could see Blowfish’s arms were still moving, but he was getting weaker. As Shark moved, everything else began to fade. It was only him and his prey. He tightened his grip on the dagger. He did not fear Adan, but he did fear the feeling that was inside him now. It seemed natural for him to be doing this—too natural. The knife was perfect for his hand, the unawareness of his prey, the total control he had over his breathing and senses, all seemed to come too naturally. He was Shark, and he knew then and there at ten years old that this was what he was going to be for the rest of his life. Shark realized he was in striking distance. His breathing was fast, and his heart seemed to bounce in his chest—not out of fear, but out of excitement. Shark raised the dagger across his body. It seemed like he was in a dream world. He watched the dagger as it traveled across his face. It was as if someone was guiding his hand. The dagger was so beautiful, so shiny. Like a hammer launching a bullet in a revolver, the knife took off in his hand and met its destination in the side of the small-time crime boss’s neck, causing him to release his victim. Blowfish tumbled to the ground in a heap and soiled himself. Adan turned, gripping the knife that was now covered with his own blood. He stared at Shark with fear mixed with surprise and amazement. His gray shirt now was a dark crimson. Adan’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He dropped to his knees, his eyes never leaving Shark.

  Shark never wavered. He was a Shark. Sharks have no feeling, only the hunger for prey. As Adan collapsed to the ground in a puddle of his own blood, the Shark smiled, pulled out the dagger and collected his friend.

  No feeling.

  Only the hunger for prey.

  Chapter Two

  “Bob.” Brush.

  “Bob.” Brush.

  “Bob.” Brush.

  “Bob.” Brush.

  Bob brushed his teeth first every morning at 7:05 a.m. After brushing his teeth, Bob would shave, wash his face, put on his socks, undershirt, pants, and finally a shirt. Always in that order. Always.

  Except for this morning. Between brush strokes he would say his name.

  “Bob.” Brush.

  “Bob.” Brush.

  “Bob.” Brush.

  Bob looked into the mirror illuminated by the single fluorescent bulb. This morning was like any morning, with the exception of one thing. Bob looked deeper. He of course noticed the plain brown hair, parted straight and to the left side. He noticed the bushy eyebrows and trimmed sideburns and the lack of a tan—even though he lived in Miami.

  He noticed all of that, like he did every morning, but he noticed something more this morning. He noticed how bland, how pathetically normal he really was. He was an accountant named Bob.

  “Oh dear Lord.”

  He was a model employee of a large firm who had perfect attendance for the last four years. He knew that because he received a certificate every Christmas banquet. Matter of fact, he was always on time—7:55 a.m. every morning.

  He rehearsed it in his mind. He would walk through the clear glass doors.

  “Hello, Bob,” some other pathetic stiff would say.

  “Hello, so and so,” he’d reply. This would continue until he made it to his gray cubicle.

  Oh that sickening gray cubicle, he thought, brush still in his mouth. I’m an accountant whose name is Bob who works in a gray cubicle.

  Then it happened. Deep within the recesses of his mind something snapped—or did it click, because a snap would mean it broke? Maybe something finally started working for Bob. It started to click!

  Bob took the brush from his mouth and didn’t bother shaving. He put on his undershirt, but he didn’t bother with a white dress shirt. He put on his only pair of shorts and slipped into a pair of loafers. He wished he owned a pair of sneakers.

  He called his office.

  “McGoogle and Associates, may I help you?” The polite female voice said. It was Paula, a very pretty brunette receptionist.

  “Hey Paula, this is Bob,” he said, truly smiling for the first time in a month. “I quit. Will you go to Carnival with me?”

  Paula, stunned, said, “No, but I’ll relay the message.” She hung up the phone and strangely regretted turning the man down.

  Bob hung up, laughed and headed for Carnival.

  The bus ride to 8th Street was delightful. The sun was out, and the palm trees seemed to stand at attention to the new crowned king of freedom as the bus went past. The colorful storefronts seemed to be calling to him. He was curious about what was inside each of them. Before today, Bob was just another cooperate robot going about his duties. Today that Bob was spreading his wings and taking flight for the very first time. A smile was stretched across his face. He laughed out loud as an old cliché came to his mind: “This is the first day of the rest of your life.” It was corny, but so true today.

  The bus passed by an in-line skater. She was blond with long legs and form fitting clothes. Her hair flowed with the wind. He wondered what color her eyes were behind those dark shades. Her i-Pod ear buds were inserted. He
wondered what kind of music she was listening to.

  He waved at her, and as the bus pulled away she smiled and waved back. He sat back and thought, Oh, yeah—I’m a stud.

  The girl—Lisa Florence was her name—skated every day. The 402 bus usually passed her about the same time and same place. She was a creature of habit. Today when the bus passed, a middle-aged man stood out. He seemed happy, but her first thought was, Dork.

  Color flags strung from light pole to light pole caught Bob’s eyes. They were coming fast, and he realized they promoted one of those “we finance anybody” cheesy used car lots. He sighed self-righteously until he saw it: a 1975 Chevy Impala. It sat there like a beauty queen who still wore her sachet and crown even though her competition was twenty years in the past. Most of the chrome was still shiny. The coat of red paint was worn into a dull pink, but at least it had no rust—except at the lower edges and the back and . . . oh well, hopefully the motor still turned over.

  Bob stepped out of the bus with the question turning over in his mind: I live in Miami, so why do I ride the bus? I need a car.

  He walked from the bus stop a block away from the lot. Fifteen feet from the lot he was met by an older man wearing a toupee. He had to be at least six-five and couldn’t weigh over 120 pounds, so to say he was skinny was an understatement. Acne scars covered his leathery face. His long sleeves were two inches too short, and his cargo shorts hit his knees. Flip flops were his shoes, while a large golden watch seemed to weigh down his right arm. His most prominent attire was his huge white ten-gallon hat. It looked like a giant killer mushroom from an ancient Sci-Fi movie that was trying to swallow his head.

  “Howdy, partner!” the salesman said through his smile, letting the howdy drag on. “Welcome to Cowboy Bill’s Used Quality Car Lot! What can I do you fer’ today!”

  Oh, is this wise, thought Bob. He stopped himself. Wait—that’s the old Bob, and the old Bob is no longer. The new Bob needs a ride to cruise in.

  “I want that Impala over there,” he said, pointing to the beauty queen.

  “Great,” the cowboy said. “She’s a beauty. A real classic! Did I mention we have in-house financing! You can drive today for $5,000!”

  “No need—I’ll pay cash,” Bob said, sending the cowboy into a state of pure ecstasy. The old Bob was screaming in his head not to ravage his checking account. The screaming faded as the two shook hands and headed to the small trailer-turned-office to sign on the dotted line.

  When Bob finally sat in the driver’s seat, he found it lumpy under his bottom. He put the keys in the ignition. Maybe he should have taken it for a test drive before buying it. He shook his head. Enough, old Bob—let’s drive!

  He turned the key, and the engine turned over, backfired, and roared to life. He pressed the brake with his foot and shifted the chrome lever to drive. Bob was cruising.

  The windows were rolled down, and the wind was in his hair. He noticed his radio was silent, but he could fix that. He turned the ancient knob. There was nothing digital about this car—including the radio. Bob scanned the channels, not with a button but the good ole reliable dial. The only problem was, the good ole reliable dial picked up only a Spanish station. This didn’t hamper Bob’s cheery day. Bob turned the speakers as loud as they would go. The speakers crackled, but he could hear the lyrics, and with his elbow out the window and hair blowing in the wind, he was free and headed to Carnival.

  Bob parked blocks from Carnival festivities, but the people dotted the sidewalks and gathered outside small bars. Sounds filled the air—music with Latin origins, the laughter of conversations—and the sight of so many different people, and the feeling of the warm setting sun was almost a sensory overload. Before he noticed, he was almost in a fast trot to the main festivities just a few blocks away. He was starving for fun.

  Finally the parade seemed to appear and swarm his small universe, opening a sense of freedom this accountant had never experienced before. Just for a moment, the old Bob tried to emerge and tell him to go, run back to his secure life of numbers and routine. But the spirit of Carnival swept accountant Bob away in a tidal wave of emotion, never to appear again. Bob joined the revelers, and for the first time in his life he raised his head and shouted. It was drowned by the immense noise of thousands of other revelers, but it was still a shout—a shout of freedom. For the first time, with arms upraised, Bob danced. He danced until he sweated. He danced close to people. He laughed and mingled with others. He danced so close he could smell others. He could hear them breathing; he could feel their spirits. Did he care? Of course not. This is the new, free Bob. And to prove his freedom, he roared and danced some more.

  One Month Later

  Bob’s new life was wonderful. His life consisted of lunch at El Pescador eating shrimp tortillas and fish croquetas, strolls around Domino Park—and of course cruising on the strip. But cruising didn’t make money, and eating at El Pescador shrank a bank account. Bob needed a job. His first thought was to find another accounting firm, but he quickly dismissed that idea. No accounting, no numbers. That was not exciting. The daily numbers would kill his adventure. Bob plopped down on his couch. He reached over and grabbed a two-day-old bottle of Corona and flipped on the TV. He was soon asleep.

  Bob woke to a commercial. The image was of a handsome guy in front of a sports car.

  “It’s time for a new career for you, and your future is at the University Tech School!”

  Bob sat up, spilling the last of the Corona on his shorts, and listened.

  “We offer many classes, and all of them will send you down the path to success! Some classes we offer are . . .” The narrator started reading off the list. Bob started nodding off again until one course title seemed to leap off the television screen—bounty hunting.

  Bob immediately dusted off the Cheetos, kicked the empty bottle and grabbed the phone. He dialed the number and ordered the class from another faceless voice. He was on his way to being Bob the Bounty Hunter.

  “Oh yeah—I’m a stud,” he proclaimed.

  In just ninety days, Bob was a bounty hunter and a private investigator, and he had a diploma to prove it—it has just arrived in the mail.

  He plopped down on the couch and asked himself, “Now what?”

  “I guess I’ll start looking for a job,” he said to his pet iguana. He’d bought it a few days before as part of his transformation. The lizard stayed in an old fish tank on the kitchen table, sunning itself under the lamp. When Bob mentioned a job, it looked up and flicked its tongue several times. Bob named it Pedro—Pedro, the Latin Lizard.

  “Hi, my name is Bob,” he said with an outstretched hand. Larry Nema showed no emotion, nor did he show any interest in shaking Bob’s hand.

  “Let me see your résumé,” Larry said. He gave a quick look at the résumé and laughed. “Uh, how can I say this? Bob, I’m going to be honest—”

  “Oh, God. Here we go again,” Bob said.

  “You were once an accountant. A few months ago,” Larry said, summarizing what he read in the résumé while talking to himself. “You quit, and then you studied to be a bounty hunter, and now you want to work for me at A-1 Bail Bounds.” He looked up. “So you went from an accountant to a bounty hunter?”

  “Yes,” Bob said simply.

  “Dude, I just can’t,” Larry said, suppressing a laugh. “Look at you. You’re little and soft. You don’t have experience. Have you ever shot a gun?”

  Bob looked Larry over. He saw a man in a black T-shirt stretched tight by a barrel chest, huge tattooed arms, and wide shoulders and back. His bald head was perfectly round, and his face went to a point at his chin that was covered by hair. Larry was not soft, nor was he inexperienced.

  Bob’s free spirit sank into his lower regions and was nearly enslaved by the bondage of the accountant until an idea popped in his head. He leaped from his chair, startling Larry. He stuck his hand in front of Larry’s face, giving him no option but to shake it.

  “Thanks for your ti
me, Larry, and your opinion.” He turned and nearly bounded to the door. He had a plan, and nothing was going to stop him.

  As he walked down the sidewalk admiring the palms and other walkers, it all started to make sense now. He would be the perfect bounty hunter.

  “Look at me,” Bob exclaimed to a stranger wearing pink shorts and white socks walking beside him. It startled the old man so much that he quickly jaywalked across the street.

  “Look at me,” Bob said to himself, looking toward the sky, shaking his head. “I’m perfect to be a bounty hunter. I’m soft and inexperienced, just like Larry said. I blend in with everybody. Nobody would ever expect me to be a bounty hunter. I could just sneak up on the bad guy and wham!” Bob was talking to himself rather loudly, and when “wham” came out of his mouth his fellow pedestrians gave him more space. He didn’t notice.

  “If no one wants to hire me, I’ll start my own bounty hunter service,” he said triumphantly.

  Chapter Three

  Officer Frederick Tenish loved being a policeman. The six-foot, tanned, blond officer looked like he belonged on the beach as a lifeguard or in the movies rather than in uniform in a patrol car. His heart was always in the streets, helping the residents of the neighborhoods he patrolled. From when he was a small child to when he graduated top of his class from the police academy, his dream was to be a Miami cop.

  Frederick would have been just another cop who loved his job if it hadn’t been for one fact about his life. “Officer Fred,” as the local children called him, was heir to a multimillion dollar company called Tenish Packaging, which specialized in receiving merchandise in bulk and packaging and shipping throughout the United States and around the world. He never showed any interest in ever becoming the CEO, and this drove his mother, Mary Catherine Tenish, insane. She called his career “crazy silly” and kept reminding Frederick the position he’d have to assume one day.