Black Magic Outlaw: Books 1 - 3

by Domino Finn

She glanced over her shoulder and saw my expression, then dialed her enthusiasm back a notch. "Sorry. I don't do cooking. All these nice appliances and I have no idea what to do with them."

  "That's a shame," I said. "I was beginning to think you were the perfect date." I stretched to my feet and shook off the cowboy boots I still wore, then made a beeline for the kitchen. "There's nothing to a standard Cuban breakfast. Toast, a pound of butter, and a five-egg omelet."

  She flicked an eyebrow. "Why not pour quick-dry cement in your arteries while you're at it?"

  I rounded the corner of the bar and got a full look at Milena's backside. I froze. Her clothes weren't loose fitting anymore. A black tube top exposed her shoulders and jean shorts hugged her butt. She was showing a lot of tanned skin and it all looked good. Milena wasn't just cute or hot, she was a straight-up bombshell. Her clothes squeezed her impossibly small waist and wide hips. She had an hourglass figure like I hadn't seen before. And a butt like nobody's business.

  When she turned around, my jaw literally dropped. "You have boobs."

  She rolled her eyes. "You already did that bit yesterday."

  "Yeah, but I actually have visual confirmation today."

  I wasn't kidding. It's not that the shirt was especially low cut, it's that her ladies were generously portioned. They filled out the tube top and then some.

  "Bought and paid for," she said, pressing them together and squeezing them up. She was torturing me now. Service with a smile. When I didn't retort, she laughed and bounced away with her waffles. "The kitchen's all yours, hotshot." She'd worn that getup on purpose. Maybe she wanted me to forget about Emily.

  "You're seriously gonna eat that?" I asked.

  "I don't have time for anything else. I need to work soon."

  "Sure," I said, trying to play off my disappointment. "I need to get out of here too."

  "You don't have to—"

  "I should."

  The food was just a distraction, I realized. A way to forget. No way was I gonna sit down and have a normal breakfast. (Never mind the fact that Milena didn't even stock real butter.) I dug in the freezer for waffles too. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

  We finished our meal without conversation. I put my game face on. Milena didn't try to cheer me up. She knew what I was thinking. What I had to do. Hell, she'd probably help if she could.

  "Do I have time for a quick shower?" I asked.

  "Quick."

  I didn't waste any time.

  When I got out, I studied my wounds in the mirror. The scrapes on my arms didn't hurt anymore. The bruising had faded considerably. The stitches in my chest were peachy, but still some pain there. I wasn't exactly Wolverine or the Hulk, but considering I was upright, I was impressed.

  Milena knocked and said she left something for me. Wrapped in the towel, I opened the door. She wasn't there but she'd left a plastic bag with clothes in it. I closed the door and went through the contents, surprised that everything still had price tags. She must've woken up early and gone shopping for me.

  A brand new tank top, white, stylish. New jeans with a few strategic scuffs—a far cry from the damage on my current ones. She'd even stocked me with several pairs of socks and underwear. As I dressed, each piece of clothing effected a surprising change in my mood. I wasn't wearing a dead man's clothes anymore. Even better, I felt normal.

  I found Milena in the living room, proud of herself.

  "This is the exact same outfit I wore yesterday," I told her.

  She shrugged. "It looks good on you. Sorry I didn't replace the boots. I forgot to check the size."

  I chuckled and shook my head. "I never would've guessed I'd be wearing alligator boots and wife beaters."

  "To be honest, you kinda rock them now." She gave me a wink. "Now come here you big dummy." I joined her on the couch and she handed me a small phone. "This is a burner. Anonymous. Prepaid minutes. It's disposable, so if you think someone's tracking the number, toss it."

  "They can track these?"

  "Trust me. It's a different world now."

  I checked it out. It wasn't nearly as nice as her phone. It was fatter with a thicker frame, but it ran all the basic apps I needed. She showed me them and the screen she'd set up for me. She even listed her own number in the contacts under "M." I added Evan's info using the same unbreakable cipher.

  While I toyed with the device, Milena got ready for work. Eventually, she grabbed a paper shopping bag with fancy handles and I walked her out. It wasn't until the elevator that I peeked inside.

  "Um, Milena, why do you have thongs and stripper heels in your bag?"

  She reflexively yanked it away, then sighed as she realized it was pointless. "Exotic dancer heels."

  I chuckled at the joke but her face was deadpan. She wasn't kidding.

  "You're a—"

  "Shut up!" she yelled as the elevator door opened. An old couple recoiled, aghast at the volume. Milena stormed past them, her flip-flops snapping across the lobby floor.

  "Tourette's," I explained to the elderly couple. I gave them a cartoony shrug to really sell it, then raced outside and caught up with Milena. "Look," I said. "I'm sorry. It's not my place to judge."

  "You're damn right."

  I nodded. "And I get it. Paying for law school or whatever, right? Like you said, the details don't matter."

  She halted mid stride on the sidewalk. I almost ran into her. "Those are the wrong details, Cisco. I'm not going to law school. I'm not going to any school. Dancing is what I do to pay my bills. It's how I live. It's how I got out of Little Havana."

  "But," I fumbled, not wanting to offend her but having to ask. "You and Seleste were always such good students..."

  "Yeah, well, shit didn't exactly go as planned. Did it?" Her eyes flared and she spun away from me.

  I followed again. "But can't you find something better?"

  "Better how?" Still stomping. No eye contact.

  "I... I don't know, Milena. Something a little more... A little less..."

  She stopped again and flashed angry eyes at me. "More respectable? Less sleazy? Screw you, Cisco. What happened to no judgment?" She stormed away again.

  "I didn't mean it like that," I said, but we both knew I had. I continued after her, feeling like an asshole. After a couple blocks, I spoke up. "What are you doing? Walking?"

  "Yes," she answered. "It's only a few more blocks. Parking costs money and they give me a ride home. It's better than some customer copying down my license plate."

  I nodded, and I saw it. The savvy. The toughness. What had happened to me and Seleste was forever a part of her. Everyone's damaged in some way. That's what life does to a newborn. It slowly gives and takes indiscriminately, piling on and stripping away like so many coats of paint. People are just the remnants, the left behinds. And everything considered, Milena was doing very well for herself.

  "Listen," I pleaded. "Just stop one second. I don't want you to leave like this."

  She slowed, huffed, and turned to me. Her eyes were daggers at the ready, but I knew I was safe.

  "I didn't mean anything by it," I said. "Just took me by surprise is all. Honest."

  Milena pressed her full lips together and frowned. Then she threw me a bone and nodded.

  "You need a ride at least?" I asked.

  "I'm fine," she said. "You've got more to worry about. Call me sometime, okay?"

  I waved the phone toward her. "I will."

  Real smooth, I was. Handled that revelation with all the grace of a cat with its head caught in a bag. I watched Milena walk another two blocks with a bit more bounce in her step. She put some extra shake in her ass just to taunt me. You see? She could be mean too.

  I trudged back to my car and found it missing. Guess it wasn't my car anymore. Found and towed by now. The police must have come and gone. Better them finding it empty than with me behind the wheel.

  I still had a few bucks for a taxi. I flagged one down, sat in the back, and dialed Evan.

  "W
e missed you last night," he said when I announced myself.

  "You told Emily?"

  He took a breath. "I did. You're gonna need to see her."

  I chewed my lip instead of responding. Then I changed the subject. "You didn't tell me about the infighting in Little Haiti."

  "What infighting?"

  "The voodoo gangs going at each other." I mulled it over. "The African connection."

  "What're you talking about, Cisco? There aren't any African gangs in Miami."

  I frowned. He was probably right. What did I know? But there were small populations scattered throughout the city. I thought of the anansi, the unfamiliar voodoo, and Kasper's information. I took a stab in the dark. "What about the Nigerians?"

  Evan skipped a breath. "The who— How do you know about them?"

  "Someone's taking out the Haitians, vying for control of Biscayne Boulevard. Remember their leader that was taken out with magic? That was me. A hit man. A thrall."

  "You did that?"

  "The world according to Laurent Baptiste."

  "Jesus, Cisco. You talked to Baptiste?"

  "Are you just gonna repeat everything I say in the form of a question? I told you I was getting to the bottom of this. What did you think that meant? Hallmark cards?"

  Evan didn't make a sound, but I could practically hear him thinking it over. He knew something he hadn't told me.

  "Okay," he conceded. "We need to talk. Just... not over the phone. Let's meet somewhere. Bayfront Park. You know the fountain?"

  "Come on, Evan. I grew up here."

  "Can you be there in half an hour?"

  "I'm close enough." I hung up the phone.

  I wasn't sure if this was bad, but it wasn't good. Evan had held out on me. I'd originally asked him about an African connection and he'd been mum. Now, the second I mentioned Nigerians, he wanted a covert meeting in a public place. There was something I didn't see yet.

  "Hey," I called to the driver, knocking on the plastic between us. He turned down the music and looked at me through the mirror. "You get any of that?"

  The driver was a black dude wearing a fisherman's hat. He pointed to the speakers. "I couldn't hear."

  "Right," I said, not pressing the issue. "Looks like I have a change of plans."

  Chapter 27

  My destination was a straight shot down Biscayne Boulevard in light traffic. The taxi pulled to the curb alongside the park without a lot of time to spare. The fare almost tapped me out. I paid the cabbie and asked him to wait anyway.

  "Money first."

  "What?"

  "I saw what you had left. Don't ask me to wait if you can't pay."

  I sighed and scrounged back in my pocket. "Here's my last four bucks."

  He nodded and accepted the scrunched bills. "That gets you ten minutes."

  I slammed the door and wished I still had the Monte Carlo. Not dealing with this was worth the risk of getting arrested. I shook it off and reminded myself that it was a new day with new possibilities.

  Bayfront Park, surprise surprise, is a park that sits in front of the Bay. I suppose the naming committee skipped out early that day to watch a movie or something, job well done. The park isn't much besides grass and palm trees sliced with intersecting lengths of wide sidewalks, but it works as a public space. It's mostly known for fireworks, free concerts, and guys selling arepas out of little carts. In the daytime, without an event going on, things were more laid back. Quiet, almost, but enough people and daylight to keep things reasonable. Easy visibility in all directions.

  In a plaza by the waterside, Evan Cross leaned against a railing that circled a large fountain. It was plain as far as fountains went. A bowl of concrete that sprayed and swallowed water. A fountain next to the ocean. I never understood the point. A few pedestrians were scattered nearby, but most were lounging closer to the Bay.

  No good shadows in sight, of course.

  "You afraid of something?" I asked when I came upon my friend.

  He turned, trying to act casual. He wore light clothes again, tan this time, but the effect was marred by the black bulletproof jacket he wore on top with the word "DROP" across the back. His twin guns were holstered as well.

  "Don't be dramatic, Cisco. It's just a vest."

  "If I was gonna attack you, the vest wouldn't help."

  "Exactly," he said. "So it's not for you."

  I nodded in a way that told him I wasn't so sure. I scanned the waterside again and caught a couple men watching me.

  Evan smiled and shook my hand. "Got yourself cleaned up, I see. Where're you staying?"

  "Don't worry about it," I answered, checking the perimeter of the park. "Why are we surrounded by cops?"

  My friend's smile froze in place, then drained into a sigh. "Sorry about that. They won't move in unless I tell them to."

  "What the crap, Evan? Is this why you wanted to meet in broad daylight?"

  He stepped toward me with his police officer braggadocio. "You're the one who just admitted to operating as a hit man for ten years."

  "Slaving as a zombie hit man," I corrected. "As in, not my choice. I was dead and under compulsion."

  "Then what the hell are you now?"

  I turned my back to him and checked the field. No one advanced in SWAT formation. I wasn't sure how much to trust Evan. The feeling was probably mutual. Maybe the units were just a backup plan.

  I laughed it off. "Fucking Frank Bullitt here. You always did watch too many movies."

  "We waited for you last night," Evan said softly. "It was the only thing we could talk about." I didn't answer and he spun me around by the shoulder. "We're friends, man."

  Sometimes, even when things are really obvious, it's still jarring to hear them out loud. I considered him, and I could tell he meant it. But he had held out on me.

  "I'm Cisco, bro. The same Cisco. I don't know about the last ten years, but I know about now."

  He smiled again, dissolving some of the tension between us.

  "Is anyone listening to us?" I asked.

  He shook his head.

  "Good. Do you have my case file?"

  He chewed his lip. "I couldn't get it yet."

  "I'm serious about that file, Evan. I might need it to get somewhere with this."

  "I know. I told you I'd try. I need time."

  I nodded. He could've been humoring me. "Then tell me about the Nigerian gang."

  Evan ran his hands through his short hair. "There's no gang. They don't have the numbers for street power."

  "So how do they make moves in Little Haiti?"

  "By working with the other gangs. The Nigerians are either higher level players or independent contractors on the bottom rung of the ladder. They either are the muscle, or they pay for it."

  "Pay who?"

  "That's the thing," he said. "They have associations with the Haitians. The Saints. Smaller gangs like the Westies and 71st Street Hoods. They wouldn't be taking out their allies."

  I grunted. I thought Evan had more imagination than this. "Maybe they're only friends in public. The Nigerians don't have the numbers for all-out war, so they talk business and send outside players to do their dirty work. People like me. It's death anonymous."

  He shook his head slowly. "I don't know. What put you on this Nigerian kick anyway?"

  "We don't get too many West African spider tricksters in these parts. And whatever voodoo I've been hexed with didn't come from any of the Haitian death barons."

  "But—"

  "I'm telling you, Evan, if there's Nigerian activity, it's a worthwhile lead. If I find out there's a connection and you knew about it..."

  He put his hands up in a mixture of apology and indignation. "Don't go down that road, Cisco. This is you and me we're talking about. But there is something."

  I checked the park. Everyone seemed miles away but I leaned in anyway.

  "There's a meeting today," he confided. "That's why I wanted to talk to you."

  "What kind of meeting?"
<
br />   "The Saints are having a sit down with a particular Nigerian businessman." Evan saw the excitement on my face and waved it away. "He's not a gangster, Cisco. He's a community leader. He runs a nonprofit promoting unity and culture."

  "And happens to be meeting with known criminals in public."

  Evan was ready with an explanation. "Baptiste isn't just a criminal. He runs legitimate businesses up and down the Boulevard. That means legitimate businessmen sometimes interact with him."

  "But you know better about Baptiste."

  "Everybody does. We know what he is but we can't arrest him. He plays off his family history and needing to overcome the obstacles of minority culture. He's an unlikely success story. The public eats it up."

  "What about his esteemed Nigerian business partner?"

  "Namadi Obazuaye. He's not a bad guy. He does outreach with the city commissioners and police."

  "The commissioners?" I fumed. "As in, your boss? Do you fucking work for this guy?"

  "He's legitimate, Cisco. The commissioners work with community leaders. When they need police details, the DROP team is the first in line for the overtime."

  "I can't believe it. You actually do work for these guys." I got a bad taste in my mouth and bared my teeth. DROP the real police work to score political points. "These are the facts, 'Lieutenant.' Namadi has heavy West African ties in this city. He's associating with a voodoo gang that's been under fire, by myself no less. We're all tied up in this somehow."

  "There are other facts you're ignoring. Like all the good Namadi has done for the poor neighborhoods of the city. All the redevelopment projects he's taken on."

  I hissed. "Redevelopment isn't noble. It's profitable."

  I knew Evan was hearing me, but his face was stiff. An impassive mask of disbelief. Maybe he didn't want to believe he'd been close to a bad guy. Maybe he discounted my opinion because I wasn't a detective. Maybe he needed more convincing.

  "Stop being so stubborn and open your eyes," I snapped. Some of the undercover officers watching us tensed.

  Evan Cross hooked his hands on his hips and laughed. "I can't believe this. It's high school all over again. You can only see things from your perspective. Nothing else matters to you."