Florida Mob Vacation 2
Aug. 28th, 2006 10:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gotham_knockingThree days. Three days of watching the DonCesar, from inside its lobby, from its beach, from its parking lot. He saw families, couples on romantic getaways, errant teens who couldn’t possibly afford this place, senior citizens, migrant workers, and dogs. vHe hadn’t seen any mobsters.
OK, in theory a smart gangster would not dress like a gangster. But Knox hadn’t seen any faces he knew. That could mean a number of things: 1) there was no meeting at all; 2) the meet was elsewhere and he was in the wrong place; 3) the Mob sent lesser lights to meet; or 4) this was a test by the Mob to see who would show up, to see where there were leaks. Knox didn’t like any of these.
So he gave himself one last afternoon. Which is to say, his boss gave him the afternoon, after which the trip would have to end. Knox crouched behind a palm tree, getting almost no shade, turning redder by the day, and watched the parking lot.
“Excuse me, sir.” Behind him there was a voice,. He turned around to see a pair of large men in gray suits. Bulges under the jackets. “Can we see some ID?” One of them, in his mid-40s, crewcut, gray hair, displayed a badge. Eff Bee Eye. Which given the alternative was a relief to Knox. If a problem still.
“Hey. I was just checking out the sights.” Knox, perhaps unwisely, showed the man his press card. “I hear this place is popular with visitors from up north.” But Knox knew that you don’t play games with Feds.
“Mister…Knox, if you’re here for the reason that we are, you are not helping us.” The crewcut did all the talking. His partner, a younger man with something of a mop of hair and a tan, smiled a bit, enjoying the show. “We need to keep a very low profile, and having snooping reporters around won’t help.”
“Snooping? I never snoop. I’m just watching things. I’m not in the way, at all.”
“Then you won’t mind if we ask you to watch things from elsewhere.” Knox expected this. The gig was just about. No proof, no room to work, no more vacation.
Until he saw someone. “Good lord. I know that face. But I thought he was dead.” The Feds gazed as did Knox across the parking lot. The man in question wore large mirrored sunglasses, a loud jacket that had gone out of style in 1977, and a haircut to match. And in his mouth, instead of a cigarette or a toothpick was a match, chewed at the uncoated end. “Matches Malone.”
The younger Fed stared for a moment. “Yeah. It’s him alright.” His partner in turned stared at him. “I used to work Metropolis, Glade. Malone was in Jersey, on the docks. Ran the waterfront mobs for years. And had connections to both Metro and Gotham. But I heard the same thing as Knox. Six, seven months back, he got into a firefight. All sorts of rumors.” Knox knew the rumors, including one that the Bat himself was after Malone. “You got the memo, didn’t you?” Glade thought for a moment, and acted as if he had. Knox suspected that this Glade was more government muscle than brainpower and this his partner was in charge despite the age.
“Well, maybe you know your stuff, Knox, but you still can’t stay here. Go home. Or go surfing. Just be elsewhere.” Glade then began to walk away. It was clear that the discussion and the stakeout were over. The other Fed stayed behind for a second, though.
“Good catch, Knox. Not that we wouldn’t have spotted him. But it’s good that you did. Thanks.” The other Fed – whose name Knox didn’t know, followed Glade. “Vega was right about you.” But before Knox could reply, the Fed was gone.
No matter. The story was accurate. There was a meeting of the Mob. And soon the hotel would probably be crawling with mobsters. And undercover cops and Feds. Knox wasn’t sure what else he could do now. He’s be sure to be spotted inside. Or outside. Or anywhere.
But he knew where he needed to be. The hotel awaited. The story awaited.
But boy, it was really sloppy of Malone, being spotted so easily. It was as if he was taunting the Feds. Maybe he was. The man had a reputation for being reckless. A reputation Knox was thankful for today.
OK, in theory a smart gangster would not dress like a gangster. But Knox hadn’t seen any faces he knew. That could mean a number of things: 1) there was no meeting at all; 2) the meet was elsewhere and he was in the wrong place; 3) the Mob sent lesser lights to meet; or 4) this was a test by the Mob to see who would show up, to see where there were leaks. Knox didn’t like any of these.
So he gave himself one last afternoon. Which is to say, his boss gave him the afternoon, after which the trip would have to end. Knox crouched behind a palm tree, getting almost no shade, turning redder by the day, and watched the parking lot.
“Excuse me, sir.” Behind him there was a voice,. He turned around to see a pair of large men in gray suits. Bulges under the jackets. “Can we see some ID?” One of them, in his mid-40s, crewcut, gray hair, displayed a badge. Eff Bee Eye. Which given the alternative was a relief to Knox. If a problem still.
“Hey. I was just checking out the sights.” Knox, perhaps unwisely, showed the man his press card. “I hear this place is popular with visitors from up north.” But Knox knew that you don’t play games with Feds.
“Mister…Knox, if you’re here for the reason that we are, you are not helping us.” The crewcut did all the talking. His partner, a younger man with something of a mop of hair and a tan, smiled a bit, enjoying the show. “We need to keep a very low profile, and having snooping reporters around won’t help.”
“Snooping? I never snoop. I’m just watching things. I’m not in the way, at all.”
“Then you won’t mind if we ask you to watch things from elsewhere.” Knox expected this. The gig was just about. No proof, no room to work, no more vacation.
Until he saw someone. “Good lord. I know that face. But I thought he was dead.” The Feds gazed as did Knox across the parking lot. The man in question wore large mirrored sunglasses, a loud jacket that had gone out of style in 1977, and a haircut to match. And in his mouth, instead of a cigarette or a toothpick was a match, chewed at the uncoated end. “Matches Malone.”
The younger Fed stared for a moment. “Yeah. It’s him alright.” His partner in turned stared at him. “I used to work Metropolis, Glade. Malone was in Jersey, on the docks. Ran the waterfront mobs for years. And had connections to both Metro and Gotham. But I heard the same thing as Knox. Six, seven months back, he got into a firefight. All sorts of rumors.” Knox knew the rumors, including one that the Bat himself was after Malone. “You got the memo, didn’t you?” Glade thought for a moment, and acted as if he had. Knox suspected that this Glade was more government muscle than brainpower and this his partner was in charge despite the age.
“Well, maybe you know your stuff, Knox, but you still can’t stay here. Go home. Or go surfing. Just be elsewhere.” Glade then began to walk away. It was clear that the discussion and the stakeout were over. The other Fed stayed behind for a second, though.
“Good catch, Knox. Not that we wouldn’t have spotted him. But it’s good that you did. Thanks.” The other Fed – whose name Knox didn’t know, followed Glade. “Vega was right about you.” But before Knox could reply, the Fed was gone.
No matter. The story was accurate. There was a meeting of the Mob. And soon the hotel would probably be crawling with mobsters. And undercover cops and Feds. Knox wasn’t sure what else he could do now. He’s be sure to be spotted inside. Or outside. Or anywhere.
But he knew where he needed to be. The hotel awaited. The story awaited.
But boy, it was really sloppy of Malone, being spotted so easily. It was as if he was taunting the Feds. Maybe he was. The man had a reputation for being reckless. A reputation Knox was thankful for today.
