Free Florida Heatwave by Michael Lister

hand and let his wallet fall open to reveal a badge and Ft. Lauderdale police identification. “Randy Hubbard?”
    Randy felt his face flush. “Yeah.”
    “I’m Tom Lester, Fort Lauderdale PD. These gentlemen are with the Defense Investigative Service. We need to talk.”
    “About?”
    “About Computer Parts International.”
    Randy swallowed, thinking about his bust-out that had financed his lifestyle and this venture. “What about it?”
    “Were you the original owner?”
    “The president was …”
    The man stepped inside. “Cut the shit. We know who’s who and what you’re doing here.”
    Randy was afraid to look at Golden. He knew this deal was done.
    “Look, you have no evidence on this or any other company. Now I’m gonna ask you to get your ass out of here so I can go back to work. Unless you have something that might convince me I should talk to you.”
    The Lauderdale cop smiled.
    That unnerved Randy but he stayed tough.
    The cop reached across Randy to Dale who was shaking at the encounter. The cop grabbed a handful of Dale’s shirt and yanked it up, revealing an electronic device, wire, and a tiny microphone taped onto his chest. Patches of his thick hair had been crudely shaved away.
    Randy thought he might vomit.
    Golden said, “I got no part of this,” and started to walk away.
    The Lauderdale cop said, “There’s a man from the SEC interested in speaking with you, Mr. Golden. We’ll escort you down to the little office he’s waiting in.” The cop turned his attention back to Randy. “You have thirty seconds to decide if you’re on the bus or under it.”
    Randy looked at Dale who shrugged, fighting back tears and saying, “They were going to take my Series 63 license.”
    Randy looked back at the cop, who was now smiling broadly, and said, “You don’t understand, I’m trying to save the state.”
    The cop nodded. “So am I.”

A TAMPA MAN
    BY ALICE JACKSON
    Police Detective Dan Hawkins imagined the bulging veins in Captain Johnny Casano’s neck comprised a roadmap. The blueish outline headed southwest from the older man’s fleshy earlobes, then made a sharp turn due south before disappearing beneath the loosened knot of his necktie. Hawkins visualized the lines ending at his ribcage, somewhere south of Key West. The image helped Hawkins ignore his brother-in-law’s rant about the professional risk he had assumed in finagling a spot for him inside the detective division. Hawkins considered telling Casano he could have gotten the promotion on his own, but if he kept quiet, chances were good Casano would run out of steam or pass out from a lack of blood flow to the brain. Hawkins didn’t want to engage him in debate. He just wanted him to shut up.
    The black ceiling fan failed to cool the heat of a Florida fall pouring through the open window. Briefly, the wail of a siren from the parking lot two stories below the Tampa Police Department’s Fourteenth Precinct blotted out Casano’s rant.
    The big man yanked off his plaid sports coat and threw it across his cluttered desk before he stooped in front of Hawkins’s face and yelled, “You’re small potatoes in this department, but the chief’s heard that Bobby Kennedy may be sending his G-Men to snoop around. It’s all speculatin’, of course, but something like what you did could cause a lot of problems! Do you understand what I’m tellin’ you here, Jughead?”
    Hawkins waited a few seconds, pretending to ponder Casano’s question. “I would think if the attorney general were bustin’ up anything in Tampa, it would be Santos Trafficante’s network.”
    Casano ran his hands through his greasy flat-top and wiped the Vitalis onto his trousers. “You don’t understand anything, do you, boy?” he muttered.
    What Hawkins understood more than anything else was the fact that he loved his wife Jeanette. Loved her enough to exchange the Florida Keys where he had grown up and the deputy sheriff’s job he had adored for the