The Tampa Bay Kid

By GERRITY JAMES

Dominic Amiccis Sicilian blood was up because he wanted his stolen money back and theTampa Bay Kid dead.

The Cuban cigar smuggling operation into Ybor City had been lining Amiccis pockets with easy money until the Kids gang of street rats had interrupted the flow.

While the Kid was away at his mothers funeral, his band of half-breed teens had made a mistake. Now everybody was paying for it.

After Amiccis henchmen sunk the pontoon boat that the Kid and his friends lived on and started killing off the kids one by one, the Kid takes actions into his own hands.

Soon everybody wants a piece of the Tampa Bay Kid: the nasty gangsters of Ybor City, Tampa Police Homicide Detective Dave OBrien, the lovely television news reporter Laura Jeanette, and the meticulous and cunning hit woman known in the underworld as D.M. Under the unrelenting pressure, something is going to explode.

Can the Kid bust out of the mean streets of Tampa Bay and find a new way of living? Can he save his girlfriend Kim-Lu and his loyal mentor Doc, the retired professor?

The Kids hope is spiked when running from certain death. He dashes right into the arms of Buck Running Cloud. Buck persuades the Kid to come to the high desert to find peace. Another journey unfolds - leading the Kid to a breathtaking wilderness and a way of living beyond his wildest dreams.

Armed with his new experience from

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 28, 2004
• ISBN: 9781468563900

GERRITY JAMES

Gerrity James has a world full of experience with the young runaways about whom he writes.  Gerrity served as a neighborhood youth corps counselor and Platoon Sgt. in the U.S. Marines.   Gerrity went on to become a high school teacher, head high school football coach and principal of an alternative high school.    He also served for several years as the Director of the Nancy Reagan TPC Village owned by the PGA tour.   The Village is a long-term therapeutic community for teenagers with various alcohol, drug and behavioral problems.  Emerging from this dynamic experience, Gerrity James has created a multi-cultural action adventure with hope.  THE TAMPA BAY KID!

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A bead of sweat broke from his crown. It joined another at mid forehead. Its new mass snaked down the ridge of his well-shaped nose and dropped onto dry lips. He gave the droplet an involuntary flick with his tongue and tasted his own salt.

The Kid felt the lurching of the wooden floor beneath him. He blinked his fatigued eyes and stared into the muted darkness. He raised his head slowly and shook to alertness by the loud steel clanging of the car couplings slamming together.

It had been a long time since the Kid had ridden in the belly of a boxcar, and his mind was flashing to him the familiar sound from the past.

He sprang up from the grimy floor and leaped to the partially open freight car door. The Kid had an instinctual bad feeling in his gut. He squinted into the haze of the early dawn light. The air hung heavy with new summer humidity and unspent diesel fuel. `

‘‘Shit. He muttered to himself. ‘‘Shit, he said again out loud. He’d ridden the freight all the way into the yard. A real mistake.

Grabbing his backpack, the Kid stood in the narrow opening of the car door. He looked and listened, trying to be patient. His well-tanned face was streaked with sweat. He reached into a pocket on his backpack and pulled out a thick rubber band. The Kid pushed his long black hair back into a ponytail. He had just arrived, yet he felt the pull to be back in Tampa with the kids.

Doc had talked him into it, said it was something he should and must do. Well, in spite of himself, he was here in the Big Easy, a long way from Tampa Bay.

The fog had not lifted and visibility was still poor. He couldn’t wait any longer. New Orleans, here I come, ready or not.The Kid leaped from the train as it was being pushed onto its siding. He no sooner hit the ground than someone bellowed over the noise of the train.

‘‘You there, hold up!’’

‘‘Damn it, I knew this would happen," the Kid yelled again, and started sprinting along the bucking boxcars. He looked for an opening under the slow-moving freight. Without hesitation as one set of the rumbling wheels rolled by, he scrambled underneath the train and out the other side.

The shorter of the two yard guards bent over, panting hard, and peered under the still-moving train. ‘‘Did you see what that silly bastard did? He could’ve killed himself.’’

The taller guard replied, ‘‘You know those kids are crazy, they think they’re indestructible.’’

The Kid jumped to his feet and dashed up a steep gravel-covered embankment. Before him stood the last barrier to escape the yard, an eight-foot chain link fence.

The Kid wondered if he had given the yard guards their thrill for the day. They were not aware that his credo since age twelve had been live fast, die young, and have a good looking corpse. Life had forced him to become a warrior, and this was how he now lived.

He stood looking at the fence for a few seconds, took off his pack and threw it in one easy motion up and over the tall barricade. The Kid grabbed the wire fence, his fingers curled through the steel strands. He glided hand over hand up and over the high enclosure, landing on the other side with the agility of a young jungle cat.

The Kid snatched up his backpack and started running. Eventually he broke into an easy gait and snaked his way through a maze of warehouses, which led him out to Metairie Road. The washed-out dawn still had not broken through the ground-hugging fog. He jogged along with the haze-tinted headlights of the commuter traffic, headed for downtown New Orleans.

His heart was still pounding in his lean muscular chest as he trotted in a rhythmic pattern for twenty minutes to the top of upper Canal Street. His faded Tampa Prep T-shirt, matted with sweat, clung to his athletic body like a second skin. He spotted an empty bus stop, decided it was safe to rest, and sat down with a heavy thump on the metal bench.

When his breathing returned to near normal, he started to relax. He was aware that he couldn’t screw around too long, time was important. The Kid had to get this so-called obligation over with as soon as possible and get back to Tampa Bay.

His thoughts drifted back to the kids in Tampa. There were times when he thought too much; it would give him a dull ache in his gut. The fierce living of the streets sometimes gave him the feeling he was trying to fill some dark hole that existed somewhere deep inside him, and when the thoughts were over, it always left him with a sensation of loneliness.

This was the first time he had left his band of friends in three years. He’d left Jack in charge. Jack was the next oldest, and the strongest, but he was a manipulator, a user. Jack needed to be kept on a tight leash, and it gave the Kid an uneasy feeling. He hoped Jack was not talking the kids into one of his crazy schemes.

The Kid also thought about his friend Doc. Doc was a retired physics professor turned fisherman. The Kid had met Doc by chance at Alan’s Marina on the Hillsborough River in Tampa.

It was an unusual quirk of fate that brought the Kid to the Big Easy, and with Doc’s encouragement, he had made the long journey from Tampa Bay. He really didn’t want to come, but he knew he had to. It was time to put this part of his life behind him and move on. The main order of business was to just do it, get it over with, and get back to where he belonged.

The Kid’s head was bowed low, and he was still lost in his thoughts when the police cruiser slowed to a stop at the curb. He didn’t pay any attention until the cop who was riding shotgun walked up to the bench. The Kid recognized the familiar squeak of the cop’s leather gun belt. A very tall and broad-shouldered officer looked down at the handsome kid and fired out the questions.

‘‘Out a little early, aren’t you sport?" The Kid glanced up at the silver badge and nameplate. It read R. LaDart. You never knew when you might have to remember a cop’s name.

‘‘Let’s see some I.D.,’’ LaDart ordered. The Kid pulled out his tattered wallet and handed over his card. The cop studied the I.D. and checked the Kid out.

‘’ Florida huh? Your name is Steven Mack?’’ The officer continued to question in an arrogant tone.

‘‘That’s it,’’ the kid deadpanned. The cop rumbled on in a low New Orleans twang. ‘‘Six feet, one hundred seventy-two pounds, black hair, brown eyes, says you’re eighteen. Who you tryin’ to fool boy?’’

‘‘I’m eighteen, just like the card says,’’ the Kid answered stoically.

"If you’re eighteen, why aren’t you carrying a driver’s license, instead of Florida I. D?’’

‘‘I don’t have one yet,’’ he answered without hesitation.

‘‘You’ll crap too if you eat regular,’’ LaDart said. ‘‘What brings you to New Orleans?’’

‘‘My mother’s funeral,’’ the Kid answered, with quiet effect, his deep-set dark eyes softening. The Kid’s eyes were captivating and accentuated by the high cheekbones of his ancestry. The rugged-looking cop studied the kid for a few more seconds and handed the I.D. card back.

The tough cop looked at the sweat stains that covered the Kid’s T-shirt.

Whatcha running from boy?

The Kid shifted ever so slightly on the steel bench. Just a morning jog, staying in shape.

A tight smile crossed LaDart’s lips. He knew the kid was shooting him the bull, but he let it go.

‘‘Okay sport, keep your nose clean,’’ the tall officer called out as he stepped back into the police car and sped away.

‘‘Whew,’’ the Kid let out a long gush of air. ‘‘Thank God that stupid cop didn’t do a pat down,’’ Steven Mack mumbled to himself. Hidden under the Kid’s denim jacket was his shoulder holster cradling a loaded .357 Magnum revolver. He usually didn’t carry the deadly weapon, but on this trip to the Crescent City he decided to err on the side of being ready for anything. Survival was his hard-earned code.

What was really ironic about this close call was the word in the streets, that New Orleans cops were even tougher than the Tampa Police, a hard bunch that wouldn’t take any shit from anybody.

With the cop’s off his ass, the Kid’s thoughts drifted back again to his small gang in Tampa Bay. He was worried about them, and how Jack would handle any situations that might come up while the Kid was away.

The kids had all lived in the squats of Ybor City, an old Cuban and Italian section of Tampa, that was now the new hot spot for tourists and nightlife. The Tampa Police had roused the kids out of the squats, which were dated abandoned buildings on the fringes of the Ybor City area.

The new gang, now homeless, tried the old tunnels that crisscrossed under the streets of Ybor City, only to be driven out by the larger and older Latino gangs. The black gangs would have nothing to do with them, for the kids were all half-breeds, except Missy. Nobody really wanted them. They were the throwaway kids.

The sun had just broken through the last of the yellow haze, when the bus pulled to the curb and popped open its doors.

‘‘You headed downtown?’’ the Kid called out.

‘‘All the way," the driver said.

The Kid rode the bus well into the middle of New Orleans. He got off at the corner of Canal and Bourbon Streets.

The Kid’s mouth was dry, and hunger pangs gnawed at his stomach. It was time to find a place to chow down.

The Kid turned down Bourbon Street to hunt for food. The French Quarter was almost deserted at this early hour. A few delivery trucks made their way back and forth through the narrow streets. An occasional garbage truck rumbled past. The air reeked of spilled booze and vomit laced with a hint of jambalaya. Two bright-eyed and bushy-tailed young men passed him on their way uptown. The Kid thought they looked a little light in the loafers. The hookers must have been still in their beds, recovering from a hard night’s work.

The Kid cut off Bourbon, crossed Royal, and came within a few blocks of Jackson Square, where he saw the sign to Mr. ‘B’s. It was a breakfast and lunch place that catered to locals.

A big man smoking a huge cigar sat behind the cash register. Must have been Mr. ‘‘B.’’ He swaggered like he owned the place. The Kid grabbed a stool at the counter and ordered. A skinny waitress, with wispy blond hair served up his Bayou Special, which consisted of three eggs anyway you liked them, bacon, hashbrowns, and grits. He chased the hearty special with two large glasses of orange juice. The Kid started to feel better. He followed the tasty meal with a cup of New Orleans-style chickory coffee, and mulled his thoughts while smoking a cigarette. You could still smoke in the restaurants of the French Quarter. He wanted to quit smoking, but he just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

The Kid thought again of his friend Doc. Doc was getting old, real old, but he went out on the water almost every day and kept his small fishing business going. Doc had a bayside cottage just up from the Gandy Bridge, and the Kid and Kim-Lu visited him often.

The Kid smiled to himself, Doc’s claim to fame was that he was in the Kappa Sigma Fraternity at the University of Southern Mississippi with Jimmie Buffet.

Doc, now a retired Professor and the young gang of breeds were the only family the Kid had known over the past five years. Except for Doc, the kids had all been homeless, and somehow they found each other in the bowels of Tampa.

There was no doubt that the Kid was their leader, but at times he kept a reserved detachment. Survival in the streets took guts and wits; too much dependence on anyone or anything thing could show out as a sign of weakness.

‘’More coffee?’’ the waitress asked in a sharp Big Easy whine.

‘‘Nah, give me a check,’’ the Kid said.

The waitress gave the Kid the once-over. You from around here sonny?

Just passing through.

She finished totaling his check. Ya wanna watch your back in some of the Quarter, specially after the sun goes down.

The Kid stood up. His broad shoulders pushed at the sides of his faded Levi’s jacket. He could see the hard living etched in the waitress’ face. It reminded him of a faded memory, his mother. I can take care of myself, he answered.

Yep, look like ya can at that, she said.

The Kid checked his money, twenty-six dollars. The bill came to eight seventy-five, with a buck tip, that would leave him with sixteen-twenty five. Not a lot of money for cross-country traveling.

The Kid looked down at his grimy T-shirt. He’d better get a new one to attend his mother’s funeral. He needed to reserve his cash for food and cigarettes. Well, he’d just have to find a place to steal one. Stealing was a necessary part of living on the streets, and you had to get good at it fast to survive.

CHAPTER 2

The pontoon boat rocked with an easy sway as the waves of Tampa Bay slapped at its sides. George complained to Jack, "We’re not supposed to anchor in the open bay when it’s getting dark.’’

‘‘Who says?’’ Jack asked.

‘‘The Kid said so,’’ George said.

"Well the Kid ain’t here, and who the hell knows when he’ll be back, maybe he ain’t never comin back,’’ Jack said.

‘‘He’ll be back,’’ Kim-Lu stated emphatically. Juan echoed her feelings.

Kim-Lu had watched and adored the Kid for three years. There was something about the Kid; something that just told you that he would never let you down.

He’s your dawg, what you say don’t count, Jack said.

"The Kid will be back, and then I wanna see what your big mouth will have to say,’’ Juan yelled.

The small gang hunched on their makeshift bunks. The pontoon boat rolled with the gentle swells of Tampa Bay. They were all wondering, Where’s the Kid? When is he coming back?

Jack was left in charge, mainly because he was the next oldest to the kid, and he was muscular and tough. The Kid knew Jack had enough loyalty and spirit, that he would protect the others if they were threatened.

All the kids were half-breeds, that’s why nobody wanted them. Jack was half Irish and half Portégés, a full four inches shorter than the Kid. The Kid called him ‘‘Jack the giant-killer."

Juan was next, just turning fifteen. He was thin, with tan skin, and very intelligent. Half-Hispanic and half-white, Juan was the head mechanic. He kept the trolling motor for the pontoon, the one hundred twenty horsepower emergency outboard motor, and the souped-up golf cart all in tip-top running condition.

The Kid always included Juan in any job plans, because he was a thinker and could always point out some of the more subtle pitfalls of a gig.

George was a mulatto, half black, half white. He was what the Kid called the gang’s treasure hunter; whatever the gang needed, he could steal it. George was small for his fourteen years, yet as swift and quick as a wharf rat. His soft brown skin and black curly hair gave him a good set of looks.

Kim-Lu was part Chinese and part white, and her young face had caught the beauty of the Orient. She possessed a quiet wisdom far beyond her age, and no one in the gang could drive the speedy gas engine golf cart with such skill and daring.

Missy was the one who didn’t seem to fit. A white, thirteen-and–a-half year old runaway, the only one that was not a half-breed. She hailed from a well –to-do family, somewhere outside of New York, from a town that nobody could pronounce. Needy and immature, Missy had joined up with the kids just after the squats and was the newest member of this motley crew. She was a little beat-up when they found her, obviously not quite used to the way of the streets. There were thousands of runaway kids roaming the greater Tampa area, trying to find themselves and their niches. Many never made it.

Last but not least came the Kid himself. Half-Seminole on his father’s side, a man he never met and never wanted to. His mother had been Hispanic and part French, but most of the time she acted like a drunk Cajun. The Kid had not seen her in five years. She had deposited him in his last foster home when he was twelve, and he was gone to the streets in six months.

The tiny band of runaways looked like a juvenile contingency from the United Nations. Miraculously, with the Kid’s prodding, they learned to get along reasonably well together, and when their survival was on the line, worked as a trained unit.

The kids all drank beer when they could get it, and smoked a little pot, and all had experimented with ecstasy. It was a miracle that they had stayed away from crack cocaine and other hard drugs. The Kid was adamant that there would be no hard drug use. His gut told him they would never survive if they got hooked on junk.

Jack began his duty by asserting his bully influence, trying to persuade the Kid’s gang to do what he thought they had to in order to survive. Jack convincingly laid out his plans and Juan started the trolling motor and headed the old pontoon boat toward Tampa and the Hillsborough River.

‘‘All we’ve had to eat the last two days are peanut butter sandwiches and the case of Pepsi that George grabbed off the delivery truck, and we’re totally out of scratch, Jack rambled on with his newfound authority. I spotted a pizza joint in Ybor City a couple of nights ago. A car pulls in the side alley and two guys load four or five boxes of pizza in the trunk. I say we stake it out and grab us a nice meal.’’

There were a couple of meals the kids really relished; a good fish fry with Icehouse beer, and pizza, again with Icehouse beer. The Kid repeatedly warned the gang about not drinking too much. Under the influence you set yourself up and could become vulnerable in the streets.

Jack and the gang huddled around the steering console, and he continued seducing them with his plan.

Where’s Missy? Tell her to get her butt in here, Jack yelled. Did you see her eyes today? They looked like two piss holes in a snow bank.

We don’t have any snow around here, Juan remarked.

My dad came from a small town in upstate New York. Some place called Sidney, that’s how he talked. Jack answered.

George stuck his head through the bow curtain. Missy was taking a hurried last drag on a tiny roach.

You’d better put that out and get in here before Jack starts freakin’ out, George warned.

Missy pinched the weed and threw it in the trash bucket on the bow. The Kid was always on them not to throw junk into the bay.

Jack was still pitching his latest brainstorm to the kids when smoke started to roll into the curtain-covered cabin. Flames started leaping from the front curtain.

What the hell is that? Jack asked.

We’re on fire! George screamed.

George, frightened, grabbed a life jacket. He could not swim very well. Missy cowered under one of the bunks. Jack yelled a blue streak of profanity, This is total bullshit.

Juan swung the pontoon around, away from the prevailing wind and snapped the trolling motor into neutral. Kim-Lu calmly grabbed the fire extinguisher that was hooked to the side of the steering console. Chill out, I’ve got it. Kim-Lu blasted the burning curtain.

She darted past the smoldering remains and attacked the trash bucket, which was emitting a large stream of dark smoke into the early evening sky. Kim-Lu quickly extinguished the fire, and the emergency was over.

Missy, you stupid jerk, you were the only one out there, Jack snarled. You could have burned our house down. You’re a fuckin’ space cadet.

Missy blinked her small blue eyes and moved partially behind Kim-Lu. Her mop of blonde unkempt hair swirled around her nodding head. I’m sorry.

Juan called out from the stern, ‘‘Boat coming up our starboard side.’’

Jack yelled back, ‘‘Who is it?"

All the kids had learned nautical terminology from the Kid’s friend, Doc. With the tattered and faded side curtains the pontoon boat looked like a Chinese junk. This was misleading; for the boat was well-equipped with running lights and spotlights fore and aft. The stowed locker boxes were crammed full with diving gear, flare guns, and the most up-to-date life jackets anyone could steal.

The Tampa Police marine patrol had stopped and checked the boat many times. They found everything in such good order that they rarely paid it much attention anymore.

It’s the fuzz, Juan said.

The marine patrol pulled up along side the pontoon.

What are you guys cooking? the patrolman asked. Jack was self-centered and aggressive, but not stupid. He let Kim-Lu