Downward Dog in Miami

by Larry David Allman

  I would examine what I’d taken from them back at my hotel. Every cell in my body told me that there would be some kind of follow-up to this. I needed to be more aware than ever while I was teaching yoga in the great city of Miami.

  I got in my car and slowly drove from the parking lot, scanning around me. Nothing caught my attention… I was still lucky.

  As I drove back to the hotel, I flashed on the yoga principle of Ahimsa, do no harm. And then I reflected on another principle: when you see harm coming, take action first; don’t be a victim! I felt comfortable in that moment reconciling the two principles.

  2

  I awoke in the Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables. I’d stayed there before because it checked all of my boxes. My corner suite on an upper floor was perfect.

  I love waking up in a really nice hotel, in one-thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets and with feather pillows, sometimes enclosed in satin pillowcases, in a large, well-appointed room. It’s especially nice if the windows have effective blackout materials and the air conditioning is silent and allows me to sleep deeply at sixty-eight degrees. A large, marble-tiled bathroom with a giant shower is mandatory. The top hotels in the world almost always have a decent fitness center and a great spa with a steam room and sauna, swimming and cold plunge pools, massage, and cool-down rooms. Those top hotels also have the best trained, most professional, most discreet staff. When you return, they remember your name. If the hotel is old and has a storied history, that’s even better.

  I had a lot of things to do today, especially after my encounter with Dumb and Dumber last night. I had a first meeting with a new client for my day job. I also owned a forty-unit apartment building, which was, coincidentally, right here in Coral Gables. Things to do. Get moving.

  I jumped out of bed and took a seat on the bench at the foot of the king-size bed. After a few rounds of yogic breathing—Kapalabhati, if you need to know—I went into a deep, peaceful meditation with my back straight and my mind clean. I can set my mental clock for whatever time I need. I gently came out after thirty minutes, refreshed and ready for the day.

  The suite had a nice work area with a big desk, phones, built-in charging plugs, and lots of light. I opened the curtains, let in the lucent Florida sunshine, and sat down to make some calls. First to Hertz, where I had picked up the Jaguar.

  “I need to bring the car back. Business problem back in California. Sorry.”

  Then a call to Enterprise Premium. The manager, a fellow named Rick, went through what was available that morning. I chose the Porsche Panamera four-door hatchback, which had more power and speed than I would need… You never know. I got a Lyft driver to be ready around nine-thirty at the Miami airport, told him I would get back to him when I knew the exact time, and let him know I was a good tipper. “I’m your guy,” he said.

  My new client today was Edward Sapperstein. His company was Sabra Security LLC. It was located close by, in Coral Gables near the University of Miami, which was also one of his larger clients. The name of his company gave me good information: he had some connection with Israel (Sabra), and his business was privately owned (LLC). He had been referred by a former client. That’s become my standard procedure. It’s too dangerous to take walk-ins or unknowns. Personal referrals only.

  Ed picked up on the first ring. “I can be there around ten; does that work for you?” I asked.

  “If it works for you, it’s perfect for me. Thank you for coming to see me. I hope you can help us.”

  “See you then. I’ll call if it changes.”

  With the new client out of the way, I took out the business cards I had received last night from the women in the yoga class and dialed one of the cell numbers.

  “Good morning, Lauren Berger.” She was cheerful and energetic at seven forty-five.

  “Hi Lauren, Derek here. How’re you doing this morning?”

  “Hi Derek… So soon,” she said with a laugh. What did she know that I didn’t?

  “That’s how we roll, Lauren. Lunch today?”

  “Sure, love to. Have any place in mind? Where are you? And who exactly is this we who are doing this rolling?”

  “Sorry, just a lame expression. How about the Capital Grille, near the Arena. That work for you?” I knew it would work; it was one block from her office.

  “Yeah, it’s real close. What time?”

  “I’ll meet you there at noon. I’ll reserve for us.”

  “Cool, see you then.” She clicked off before I could say goodbye.

  I showered, shaved, and got myself ready. Five minutes after my call to room service, and with a soft knock on the door, my breakfast arrived. A large bowl of fresh fruits and assorted nuts, and strong coffee in a French Press. I gave the young girl a twenty-dollar bill—I knew the staff talked among themselves. I threw all the fruits and nuts into the Vitamix Blender in the room, together with the protein powder I bring with me, added some spring water, and blended it finely with some ice cubes from the refrigerator. Best breakfast in the world: healthy, efficient, easy, and able to provide lots of energy for the day.

  The drive over to the airport’s Hertz was a little out of the way, but I had reasons for choosing that one. Somebody would be checking up on me after the episode last night. The almost unnoticeable indentation in the right front panel where I rammed Junior last night was another good reason to give back the vehicle. The Hertz office would only know that I had returned the car and gone back to California for emergency business. I gave them a flight number that day.

  When I got out on the street after checking the car in—all of the rental car companies are located in a massive building a few miles away from the Miami airport—I called my Lyft guy, who was there in four minutes.

  There were other people standing around on the sidewalk. He spotted me right away, drove up close, and parked. He got out of the car, a Toyota Camry, bounded around to the passenger side, and opened the back door.

  “Hi, I’m Carlos,” he introduced himself. I got in the back seat. He expertly closed the door with a soft touch and got behind the wheel. “Where to?”

  “Enterprise on Second Ave… “

  “I know it. Sit back; I got it.”

  He was young and confident. He had nicely cut hair, high and vertical and close at the sides, but stylish, not fashionista-outrageous. He wore a shirt with a collar, looked like a Tommy Bahama. The ride took fifteen minutes from the airport. I noted how he drove: he was safe, efficient, and even stopped for yellow lights.

  “Where you from?”

  “My parents are from Puerto Rico. I was born here. I’m at Miami Dade now; I’ll go to UM next year. I want to be a lawyer.”

  When I meet kids like this—he was around eighteen—who are confident, have a future plan laid out, and who are already seriously working, it gives me confidence. Our future will be okay with kids like Carlos taking over. We just need a lot more like them.

  When we got to Enterprise, Carlos told me the fee was eighteen dollars. I got out a hundred-dollar bill from a wad of cash I always have ready and held it out so he could see it.

  “How available would you be if I needed you, like during non-working hours?”

  He looked at the money, then back at me. “I’m your guy.”

  “Write your cell number for me.”

  While he was poking into his shirt pocket, I reached to open my door. He had already raced around to my side. He was quick. I grabbed my briefcase, a custom-made leather model I had acquired in Milan way back. It protected my laptop and had a few specially designed features and compartments, like the one for the petite H&K VP 9 mm handgun I like to have around me.

  He held the door for me as I exited the car. He gave me his card and took the hundred with a show of gratitude. His card was lean: CARLOS… Lyft… followed by his cell number

  “Thanks. What’s your name so I know it’s you when you ca
ll?” he asked.

  “It’s Derek… My name is Derek.” We shook hands. He had a firm grip and made good eye contact with a gentle smile. He was a few inches shorter than me, and I could see he was in good shape.

  “I’ll be in touch, Carlos. I will more than likely need your services again.”

  “I’m your guy!” He drove away slowly. I could see him eyeing me in the mirror.

  I went into Enterprise and found Rick, the manager of the location. He was also a younger guy, maybe twenty-five. Miami is a young city. He showed me the Porsche Panamera we had discussed, a nice silver vehicle with a jet-black interior. At 500 horsepower and with eight gears and automatic transmission, it looked perfect for me.

  With the rental contract and keys in hand, I got into the Porsche, adjusted the mirror and seat, and got familiar with this high-powered instrument. It seems like the Germans make their products a little more complicated than the other car manufacturers, for some unknown reason. Or maybe by design. I called Ed and let him know I was on my way.

  On the way over, I called Marty, the property manager of my apartment building.

  “Hi Derek, you’re here,” he answered.

  “Hey Marty. Yeah, I’m here. You good?”

  “Yeah, all’s well, no problems today… but it’s early.”

  “Can we meet this afternoon?”

  “Sure, what time?”

  “I’m thinking two-thirty, three-ish. You okay at the property.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “I have a lunch. I’ll call you as I’m finishing.”

  “Good. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  “Thanks, Marty. See you later.”

  I clicked off, Miami style, before he could say goodbye.

  * * *

  Ed Sapperstien had started Sabra Security while he was a student at UM. That was over thirty years ago. He had built it into one of the largest and most successful security companies in the state. He provided security and security logistics for all the University of Miami sports teams and for the Miami Dolphins home games. When any celebrities came to Miami, they almost all used Sabra, especially the music people who tended to need a more sophisticated level of security. According to my research, Sabra and Ed had a sterling reputation for high-quality work.

  Sabra was located in a large, one-story industrial building on the Old Dixie Highway. Behind it was one of the beautiful canals for which Coral Gables is known, and behind that was the Italian Village section where Ed lived, full of large villa houses. His commute to work was maybe six minutes, depending on whether he caught the one red light along the way.

  Ed’s large corner office had twenty years of accumulated “stuff.” Lots of photos: Ed with who you would expect in Miami, like the Estefans, Luther, Lebron and Dwayne, Jimmy Johnson, Pit Bull, the Boss, Madonna, and many others. The one of young Ed with Richard Nixon caught my eye, right next to one of Ed and Hillary. Hmmm.

  After a warm handshake, he waved me over to the couch seating area, where we exchanged the usual small talk—the get-to-know-a-little-more-about-each-other part of the first meeting. We had each done our homework, so it was brief.

  “Can I get a look around first?” I asked. How someone sets up a business tells me more about him than what he says.

  “Sure, follow me.” He jumped up and led the way, obviously proud of what he had accomplished.

  The building was massive. I estimated it at about one hundred-thousand square feet. It had several big open spaces, and some smaller open spaces, and quite a few rooms with chairs and whiteboards and computers. People were everywhere, busy doing their jobs with movement and energy. Each of the people we encountered either waved to Ed or said hi to him. That he knew every person’s name also struck a chord, a good one.

  The largest space had four garage doors up to the ceiling. This was where Sabra kept its toys. Six black limos sat together on one side, Lincoln Continentals screaming celebrity. Two Hummers and one strange-looking military vehicle were close by. Another section in this space included a wall covered with the details involved in security work: protective vests, communication equipment, tasers, collapsible batons, black security clothes and boots, and lockers. Near that were several long vertical doors with padlocks. I guessed they held weapons. This was obviously a prep area for an event or a job.

  This all looked solid to me. I saw what I needed at this point to move forward with the client.

  “This is all?” I joked.

  “Well,” Ed started, “we have a helicopter and a plane, but—”

  I cut him off. “I was joking, Ed. This is first class.”

  “Oh…”

  “Let’s go back to your office and get started.”

  We walked back to his office without any more small talk.

  “I want to bring someone into the meeting: my IT guy, Ziv. Do you mind?” Ed asked, almost shyly.

  “No problem, if you think it’s important,” I said.

  “It’s important,” he said.

  As we got seated in Ed’s office, a young guy came in. He walked right over to me and stuck out his hand.

  “I’m Ziv. You’re Derek.” Definite accent, high energy.

  I was a little surprised. His shaven head and pirate earring were one thing, but his age, compared to Ed, was another. Ziv looked and felt like he was maybe twenty-three. Yet his attitude and confidence projected more than his youth.

  Ed asked his assistant to come in. “This is Charlie, my assistant. Twenty years together. What do you want? Something to drink… eat?”

  I asked for ice water. Ed and Ziv both asked for iced tea with lemon and Splenda, like a father-and-son duo. Charlie returned in two minutes with the drinks, all military-grade efficiency.

  “You want a hamburger, bubala?” she said, getting in Ziv’s face. He shot some daggers her way. She turned back to me. “Ziv doesn’t eat meat,” she mocked.

  “Beef! I don’t eat beef!” he said, irritated. Ed signaled with a hand for her to go out.

  “We’ve had some things happen that Ziv can’t figure out,” Ed started. “Some strange shit. Ziv is good at this; that’s why I brought him here from home. But this is bigger than a computer problem.”

  “What happened?” I asked. I assumed “home” was Israel.

  “Well, we had two large payments go missing. Each over a million. Sent to two of our partners, very important to us. The bank said we gave the wrong information… but Ziv has the routing instructions, and they’re not wrong. Ziv doesn’t make mistakes.”

  “Something else?”

  “At the same time, we had three events get messed up. Our guys got emails and texts at the last minute to show up somewhere else, not at the event site. We looked like the worst amateurs on the block. I can’t have stuff like that happen.”

  “And you never sent those messages? I mean, they weren’t re-worded messages that you had actually sent to your people?”

  “No, of course not!” He was starting to get worked up, a little red in the face.

  “Have you sourced them back, the emails and texts?”

  Ziv jumped up, body taut like that of a fighter going back into the ring. “The emails came from a server in Moldova, one from Ukraine before that. I can’t follow any further back. They change encryption algorithms after each server. I would need NSA capacity to break it. We don’t have that.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Ed cut in, signaling Ziv to sit back down. “Some guy came to see me last week. Made an appointment to discuss security at his plant, said it was making health supplements. Whatever. Arrived in a Maserati, him and three other guys. Big, beefy guys in suits. All of them had weapons; they made sure I got a glimpse. It was a show.”

  Ed was getting more worked up. He paused, signaled with his hands that he needed a break, and took several long drafts of his tea, re-co
mposed.

  “This asshole sits down in my office while his bodyguards or whatever they are—thugs—stood outside of my office. Tells me he wants to buy my company. Says he understands I’ve had some problems lately. Then looks me right in the eyes and says there could be more of that kind of shit out there, you never know where it’s coming from these days. I asked him, what kind of problems was he referring to? He says missed payments, missed assignments. Nobody knows about those missed payments; my partners don’t talk about inside stuff like that.”

  Ed had to stop again. He picked up his tea and pointed to Ziv to continue while he calmed down.

  “I’ve changed all of our security protocols. With the banks. With our phone service. With our private encrypted network. Everything. Two days ago, we got an email with no server, no routing info… like from nowhere.”

  “What was it?”

  “It was from the guy who came to see Ed, Richard Adams. Said he would like to come back and complete the negotiations.”

  “What fucking negotiations?!” Ed spewed. “This is a fucking shakedown!”

  “Sure seems like it,” I responded, getting the picture. It was the most sophisticated kind, though, where you don’t know where your enemy is, where he’s coming from, or even who he is. Obviously frightening for a guy like Ed, who had been up against tough guys before. You don’t build a big, successful business in Miami without running into other tough guys who want to take what you have.

  “So who is Richard Adams?” I asked.

  “Here, he left his card.” Ed handed it to Ziv, who walked it to me: Richard Adams, President, Siroco Investments International Corporation, Miami and Fisher Island.