Free Florida Firefight by Randy Wayne White Page A

into a historically hometown industry.
    But then it got worse.
    Men who defied the Colombians would go down to the docks one day to find their boats sabotaged. Nothing obvious: sand in the fuel tanks, or an accidental fire. If their defiance continued, the local fishermen would sail out to pull their stone crab traps, only to find the traps had been stolen.
    After about four months the local fishermen had had enough. A group of them traveled to Tallahassee, Florida’s capital, to complain. But their complaints were shrugged away as just those of more redneck racists who didn’t like outsiders.
    The Colombians, it seemed, had access to political power somewhere.
    Upon the group’s return, the fishermen had a town meeting and decided to clear the South Americans out on their own. But the fishermen were badly prepared, with almost no organization. The Colombians had already bought up most of their harbor stronghold by that time, and they were ready and waiting.
    That night they beat the fishermen back savagely, almost killing a couple of them. And those few local men who remained standing were given a very clear message: The next time the townspeople tried to interfere in their business, the Colombians wouldn’t stop at the men. They’d go for the women and children, too.
    â€œI’ll tell you, it took the starch out of ’most everybody,” Buck Hamilton said. “We’ve had a couple of meetings since then, but all we did was bitch and bluster about what we ought to do. Nothing ever came of it. Them Colombians beat us bad, James. Men around here can’t hardly look each other in the eye. They walk around with hangdog expressions like they got weights on their shoulders. And they’re good men,” Hamilton added fiercely. “It’s just that we got out-toughed. It’s embarrassing as hell, but it’s true. The Colombians are just more ruthless and less vulnerable. And the worst thing is, the women and kids sense it, and they’re scared worse than we are.”
    â€œThe night you tried to fight them, who was your leader?”
    Buck Hamilton sighed. “Hate to admit it, but I guess I was. We had the meeting here, and I led the boys down to Chatham Harbor—that’s where the Colombians are. Hell, I figured we’d just walk in there, kick ass and not bother with names. They got this huge mulatto called Simio—means ‘gorilla’ in Spanish, I guess. He’s their ringleader’s bodyguard. Well, Simio hit me a clip that knocked me out for a day and crossed my eyes for a week. I didn’t get us equipped right, so our other boys didn’t fare much better. Them Colombians are some kinda bad cattle, let me tell you.”
    Hawker remembered the name one of the Hispanics had used that afternoon. “Is their ringleader someone named Medelli?”
    â€œYeah, and he’s a slick one, too. Shiny black hair, pencil-thin mustache and shit-pot full of gold chains on his neck and wrists. He lives out there in the Gulf on a yacht the size of a jetliner. Cruises up and down the coast, taking care of business. Funny thing is, the Coast Guard doesn’t bother him. Medelli’s got some pull somewhere.”
    â€œHe never comes to Mahogany Key?”
    â€œOh, sure. Comes in to collect his drug money, I guess. He was here at the Tarpon Inn about a month ago. Brought that mulatto of his, Simio, with him. He swung a suitcase full of cash money on the bar and told me he was buying my place. I told him it wasn’t for sale. He asked me how I’d like to end up as ’gator feed out in the ’Glades. I told them to get their asses out, and they left.”
    Hawker smiled. “After the beating you took, it’s not the sort of thing a coward would do.”
    Hamilton looked sheepish, peering at Hawker through the bifocals. “I guess I didn’t mention I was holding a double-barrel Winchester on them at the time,