The warm tropical night breeze rattled the palm leaves overhead, as the two men sat in the car. The car itself was eye catching, a gleaming white Ferrari Testerrosa. But in Miami Beach, it was just another rich man's trinket. But the two men in the car were anything but idle rich business men. The man behind the wheel was medium hight, sandy haired, with a slightly rumpled white linen suit and soft brown Gucci loafers with no socks. He wore a blue T-shirt was under the suit jacket in leu of a shirt and tie. A two day stubble of beard shadowed his face, and he projected an unkempt slightly seedy persona. The persona was furthered by the butt of the Bren 10 handgun slightly projecting from the shoulder holster under his left arm. His cover was Sonny Burnet, an underworld drug trafficker with "connections." In reality, he was James 'Sonny' Crockett, of the Miami police, vice division.
His companion, the young man in the passenger seat of the Ferrari, was the total opposite. Well dressed and groomed to the extreme, he was dressed in a tropical weight gray suit that cost more than most people make in a week. It was expertly tailored, and his handmade Italian shoes were one of a kind. He could have been a very successful stock broker or a doctor, but the brutal weapon laying in his lap spoke of a different trade. It was a sawed off double barrel shotgun, no longer than a man's forearm, and was an effective man eater. He was Ricardo 'Rico' Tubs, formerly of the New York City police department, now of the Miami Vice. He and Detective Crockett had been partners for three years now, and they were on stakeout, waiting for a meeting with a mystery man who was claimed he was bringing in the new "stuff". The Ferrari was parked at the side of a paved lot overlooking the boat launch ramp of a small private marina. At 2AM, they had the place to themselves.
"Well partner, what do you think? A no show?'' said Sonny.
"Give it a little bit, then we'll pack it in." said Rico.
No sooner that the words were said, an amphibious airplane came in low over the bay, and touched down on the still moonlit waters, slowing and taxing to the launch ramp. It was a beautiful old Grumman Goose, and it came to rest sitting broadside to the ramp, and the side door opened and two men stepped out onto the damp pavement at the waterline. The two men, one carrying a H&K MP5, the other with a attaché case walked toward the parking lot where the Ferrari sat. Sonny and Rico had got out of the car and were waling toward the waiting men, Sonny carrying a attaché case with what was supposed to be the payment. They stopped a short distance apart from each other, eyeing each other with suspision.
"You Burnet?" asked the man with the attaché case.
"Yeah, that's me, you want to give us an eyeball on the goods?" Sonny asked.
The man with the case started to kneel down to rest the case on the ground to open it, but was stopped by the man with the sub gun in his hands.
Wait a minute, don't I know you?" he asked Sonny.
" No, you don't know me, pal. Unless you have something to sell. I'm the man who buys things, and the money is right here if you want to check it out."
The man stared at Sonny and then slowly inched his gun more towards where Sonny was standing. Ricco shifted his stance a few feet off to one side, slightly raising his sawed off shotgun.
"Okay gentlemen, lets be cool here. You're here to sell, we're here to buy." Rico told the gunman.
For a frozen moment, Sonny and the man with the H&K stared at each other. Gently, Sonny laid down the attaché case and flipped open the top reveling the stacks of banded bills. Both the newcomers stared at the money, and things seemed to relax. But then the man with the H&K took a step back and started to bring his gun up.
"I got it now! You're a cop! You busted a friend of mine a year ago who worked for Calderone!" he yelled at Sonny, and pointed the gun.
Sonny dove to the side rolling as he grabbed for his Bren, but the deep throated blast of Rico's shotgun rang out before the man with the sub gun could fire on Sonny, and the charge of buckshot threw the gunman in a heap on the pavement. The other man with the briefcase had dropped it, and was pulling out an auto pistol from under his suit coat, but now Sonny was on one knee, and had his Bren 10 in a two handed grasp, firing a quick two round group into the chest of the second man. In a few heartbeats, death had come to the quiet parking lot, and even before the gunfires last echo's had faded, sirens and police cars were rushing into the lot. The backup team that had been waiting just out of sight to aid the two undercover detectives all rushed onto the scene. Meantime, the Grumman had taxied away, and was starting a take off run down the bay. A police boat had come around the other side of the bay, but the Goose lifted off before the police boat could intercept, and vanished into the night while flying low.
Organized chaos ruled for a short time, with yellow police tape strung up, and detectives taking charge. A man stepped out of a black Chevy Suburban, and the others gave away before him. Whip stock lean, with a sallow pock marked complexion, he was dressed in a black suit, with a white shirt that was crisp and starched. He was Lieutenant Martin Castillo, the head of the Miami Vice department. A strict no nonsense man, he was both loved and feared by his detectives, both emotions stemming from the deep respect they held for him. The group of detectives parted before him as he went to the briefcase and unlatched and opened the top. Flipping back the top part of the case, the detectives gasped at what they saw. The case was full of knives. But knives like they had not seen before.
Long slim knives, with graceful almost fluid lines, with handles made of horn. The colors ranged from a light honey blond, to dark as night. Blades that were folded down into the handles were a long leaf shape, with an almost needle point. They were elegant.
"Knives? They were smuggling knives?" detective Switick asked in disbelief. " What's it mean, Lieutenant? What's going on?"
The Lieutenant's obsidian dark eye's swept his detectives with a stoney glance. When he spoke, he had their complete attention.
"What it means is, there's a new game in town, and a new player. We've been asked by Interpol to assist at this end to try to figure out who's behind it. What you're looking at are Sardinian Resolza's. They come from small shops in Sardinia, and are being smuggled in to cripple what's left of our cutlery industry. With the demise of Camillus and Schrade, there's not a lot left. We think the plan is, to take over the cutlery market in this country. Six months ago Italian authorities dropped an agent into Sardinia, to try to infiltrate this group. He disappeared with no trace. Interpol also dropped an agent in, and the same thing happened. Sardinian culture is a tight one, and it's hard to get in. So we've been asked to see what we come up with at our end. We were hoping that tonight we'd have someone under arrest. Some who could be possibly made to roll on his higher ups. It looks like that won't happen." said Castillo, looking at the two dead men laying in the lot.
"Do we have anything at all to go on?" asked Crockett.
"We have a name, one name only." replied Lieutenant Castillo, " Fausto."
"That's it? Fausto? Ya got a whole island and an international smuggling ring, and all we have is one name?" Demanded Crockett.
For a moment the question hung in the air, and the Lieutenant gave Crockett a stare as hard as a diamond.
"Yes detective, that's all we've got. That's why you're called a detective, so you're going to go out there and lean on any street contacts you have. Get info. Any info." said Castillo. "You lean as hard as you have to.."
The detectives went to their cars and dispersed into the night, leaving the crime scene in the hands of the crime scene technicians. Crockett gunned the Ferrari and the flat 12 cylinder engine gave of a throaty mellow growl. The Lieutenant closed the case of knifes and got in his black Suburban and went back to the office.
Later that night, the detectives offices were dark, except for the Lieutenant's, where the desk was in a pool of yellow light given off by the desk lamp. Castillo sat, writing out his report, and the gold Cross pen glinted in the lamp light. The open attaché case of Sardinian resolza's sat open on his desk, and the lieutenant stopped writing as his attention was drawn to one particular resolza. It was laying on top of the pile, and was larger than the others. The handle was midnight black, with pale streaks running through it, like a ghostly aurora in the darkness of the horn. The lieutenant put down his pen, and picked up the dark resolza. He pulled open the blade, and approved of the smooth steady pull of the friction folder action. The blade glinted in the yellow light of the reading lamp, and the lieutenant admired the 6 inches of long graceful leaf shaped blade. Open in his hand, it felt like a precsission surgical instrument, or maybe a perfectly balanced fencing foil. Elegantly wicked, was a term that came to Castillos's mind. He enjoyed the feel of it, the balanced heft of it. His mind wandered. Then, like a man waking from a dream, he shook his head and closed the knife, tossing it back into the pile of knives.
Picking up his pen, he continued his report, but before long, he found his eyes wandering over to the dark resolza, thoughts dark as the midnight horn of the handle.
His companion, the young man in the passenger seat of the Ferrari, was the total opposite. Well dressed and groomed to the extreme, he was dressed in a tropical weight gray suit that cost more than most people make in a week. It was expertly tailored, and his handmade Italian shoes were one of a kind. He could have been a very successful stock broker or a doctor, but the brutal weapon laying in his lap spoke of a different trade. It was a sawed off double barrel shotgun, no longer than a man's forearm, and was an effective man eater. He was Ricardo 'Rico' Tubs, formerly of the New York City police department, now of the Miami Vice. He and Detective Crockett had been partners for three years now, and they were on stakeout, waiting for a meeting with a mystery man who was claimed he was bringing in the new "stuff". The Ferrari was parked at the side of a paved lot overlooking the boat launch ramp of a small private marina. At 2AM, they had the place to themselves.
"Well partner, what do you think? A no show?'' said Sonny.
"Give it a little bit, then we'll pack it in." said Rico.
No sooner that the words were said, an amphibious airplane came in low over the bay, and touched down on the still moonlit waters, slowing and taxing to the launch ramp. It was a beautiful old Grumman Goose, and it came to rest sitting broadside to the ramp, and the side door opened and two men stepped out onto the damp pavement at the waterline. The two men, one carrying a H&K MP5, the other with a attaché case walked toward the parking lot where the Ferrari sat. Sonny and Rico had got out of the car and were waling toward the waiting men, Sonny carrying a attaché case with what was supposed to be the payment. They stopped a short distance apart from each other, eyeing each other with suspision.
"You Burnet?" asked the man with the attaché case.
"Yeah, that's me, you want to give us an eyeball on the goods?" Sonny asked.
The man with the case started to kneel down to rest the case on the ground to open it, but was stopped by the man with the sub gun in his hands.
Wait a minute, don't I know you?" he asked Sonny.
" No, you don't know me, pal. Unless you have something to sell. I'm the man who buys things, and the money is right here if you want to check it out."
The man stared at Sonny and then slowly inched his gun more towards where Sonny was standing. Ricco shifted his stance a few feet off to one side, slightly raising his sawed off shotgun.
"Okay gentlemen, lets be cool here. You're here to sell, we're here to buy." Rico told the gunman.
For a frozen moment, Sonny and the man with the H&K stared at each other. Gently, Sonny laid down the attaché case and flipped open the top reveling the stacks of banded bills. Both the newcomers stared at the money, and things seemed to relax. But then the man with the H&K took a step back and started to bring his gun up.
"I got it now! You're a cop! You busted a friend of mine a year ago who worked for Calderone!" he yelled at Sonny, and pointed the gun.
Sonny dove to the side rolling as he grabbed for his Bren, but the deep throated blast of Rico's shotgun rang out before the man with the sub gun could fire on Sonny, and the charge of buckshot threw the gunman in a heap on the pavement. The other man with the briefcase had dropped it, and was pulling out an auto pistol from under his suit coat, but now Sonny was on one knee, and had his Bren 10 in a two handed grasp, firing a quick two round group into the chest of the second man. In a few heartbeats, death had come to the quiet parking lot, and even before the gunfires last echo's had faded, sirens and police cars were rushing into the lot. The backup team that had been waiting just out of sight to aid the two undercover detectives all rushed onto the scene. Meantime, the Grumman had taxied away, and was starting a take off run down the bay. A police boat had come around the other side of the bay, but the Goose lifted off before the police boat could intercept, and vanished into the night while flying low.
Organized chaos ruled for a short time, with yellow police tape strung up, and detectives taking charge. A man stepped out of a black Chevy Suburban, and the others gave away before him. Whip stock lean, with a sallow pock marked complexion, he was dressed in a black suit, with a white shirt that was crisp and starched. He was Lieutenant Martin Castillo, the head of the Miami Vice department. A strict no nonsense man, he was both loved and feared by his detectives, both emotions stemming from the deep respect they held for him. The group of detectives parted before him as he went to the briefcase and unlatched and opened the top. Flipping back the top part of the case, the detectives gasped at what they saw. The case was full of knives. But knives like they had not seen before.
Long slim knives, with graceful almost fluid lines, with handles made of horn. The colors ranged from a light honey blond, to dark as night. Blades that were folded down into the handles were a long leaf shape, with an almost needle point. They were elegant.
"Knives? They were smuggling knives?" detective Switick asked in disbelief. " What's it mean, Lieutenant? What's going on?"
The Lieutenant's obsidian dark eye's swept his detectives with a stoney glance. When he spoke, he had their complete attention.
"What it means is, there's a new game in town, and a new player. We've been asked by Interpol to assist at this end to try to figure out who's behind it. What you're looking at are Sardinian Resolza's. They come from small shops in Sardinia, and are being smuggled in to cripple what's left of our cutlery industry. With the demise of Camillus and Schrade, there's not a lot left. We think the plan is, to take over the cutlery market in this country. Six months ago Italian authorities dropped an agent into Sardinia, to try to infiltrate this group. He disappeared with no trace. Interpol also dropped an agent in, and the same thing happened. Sardinian culture is a tight one, and it's hard to get in. So we've been asked to see what we come up with at our end. We were hoping that tonight we'd have someone under arrest. Some who could be possibly made to roll on his higher ups. It looks like that won't happen." said Castillo, looking at the two dead men laying in the lot.
"Do we have anything at all to go on?" asked Crockett.
"We have a name, one name only." replied Lieutenant Castillo, " Fausto."
"That's it? Fausto? Ya got a whole island and an international smuggling ring, and all we have is one name?" Demanded Crockett.
For a moment the question hung in the air, and the Lieutenant gave Crockett a stare as hard as a diamond.
"Yes detective, that's all we've got. That's why you're called a detective, so you're going to go out there and lean on any street contacts you have. Get info. Any info." said Castillo. "You lean as hard as you have to.."
The detectives went to their cars and dispersed into the night, leaving the crime scene in the hands of the crime scene technicians. Crockett gunned the Ferrari and the flat 12 cylinder engine gave of a throaty mellow growl. The Lieutenant closed the case of knifes and got in his black Suburban and went back to the office.
Later that night, the detectives offices were dark, except for the Lieutenant's, where the desk was in a pool of yellow light given off by the desk lamp. Castillo sat, writing out his report, and the gold Cross pen glinted in the lamp light. The open attaché case of Sardinian resolza's sat open on his desk, and the lieutenant stopped writing as his attention was drawn to one particular resolza. It was laying on top of the pile, and was larger than the others. The handle was midnight black, with pale streaks running through it, like a ghostly aurora in the darkness of the horn. The lieutenant put down his pen, and picked up the dark resolza. He pulled open the blade, and approved of the smooth steady pull of the friction folder action. The blade glinted in the yellow light of the reading lamp, and the lieutenant admired the 6 inches of long graceful leaf shaped blade. Open in his hand, it felt like a precsission surgical instrument, or maybe a perfectly balanced fencing foil. Elegantly wicked, was a term that came to Castillos's mind. He enjoyed the feel of it, the balanced heft of it. His mind wandered. Then, like a man waking from a dream, he shook his head and closed the knife, tossing it back into the pile of knives.
Picking up his pen, he continued his report, but before long, he found his eyes wandering over to the dark resolza, thoughts dark as the midnight horn of the handle.
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. What happened to the knives?
We all want them pics, even if we do not admit it openly