Raw Deal

by Les Standiford

  “Well, you might as well be,” Chuy-Chuy said. “I’d as soon be back in jail.”

  “It was Torreno, wasn’t it?” Driscoll said.

  Chuy-Chuy turned away.

  “Torreno or one of his slimewads,” Driscoll said. “And you didn’t just say ‘Sorry, I’m busy.’ I seen enough of your work around this town. You gave them a goddamned by-the-numbers kit, didn’t you? That’s the least you did.”

  Chuy-Chuy whirled back on him then, his face full of venom. “Fuck you, Driscoll. Fuck you and this asshole and this asshole’s old lady, cuz the worst thing you can think of isn’t worth what you want from me…”

  And that was when Deal went after him. A beer spilled, and there was cold wetness across his legs, and a roaring white noise had come to fill his head. He didn’t care about any of that, though. He was lost in the satisfaction of his hands closing around Chuy-Chuy’s throat and the gurgling sounds he made until Driscoll had pulled him off.

  He could barely hear Driscoll’s rough voice barking at Chuy-Chuy—“Get out of here. Get the hell out of here”—was only vaguely conscious of a bad TV picture of a baseball game and a vague blur of the little man fleeing through the door, but it was all dim and unreal compared to the picture of the night when his world collapsed, the picture that was never going to let him go.

  ***

  “I’m sorry about that,” Driscoll said, breaking the silence. “I had to grind the little prick, though. It’s the only way I’d know whether he actually did it.” They were twisting down Ingraham Highway in Coconut Grove, the moon flittering through the tangle of branches overhead.

  Deal glanced over. He’d been listening to the thudding of his own pulse as it gradually slowed, watching the big man drive, thinking that he could have killed a man earlier, very well might have, had Driscoll not pulled him off. And on what grounds? Because Chuy-Chuy had pissed him off? Because Driscoll had bullied Chuy-Chuy until he was willing to say anything? Time to get a grip, Deal.

  They were very nearly home now, the place Deal was calling home, anyway. Before the hurricane, the trees had interlocked over the roadway, creating a solid canopy, leaving a broad tunnel beneath them, through the green. Now the branches were just starting to touch again. Like old friends, Deal thought…or lovers. And felt the ache that came with every thought approximating emotion.

  He forced the image of Janice in her hospital bed from his mind, tried to find something mindless to focus on, but it didn’t seem possible. Before he knew it he was reliving the satisfaction he had felt trying to bite a kid’s toe off earlier in the evening.

  He took a deep breath, glanced over at Driscoll. “What’s your interest in this Torreno character, anyway?”

  Driscoll snorted. “Vicente Luis Torreno? You don’t know who he is?”

  “He’s a businessman.” Deal shrugged.

  “Maybe that’s why you went bust as a builder,” Driscoll said dryly. “Your old man sure as hell knew what Torreno could do. His crowd, anyway. The Unacknowledged. They control half the City Council seats, the Chamber of Commerce, the builders’ association…”

  Deal decided to ignore the issue of who ruined DealCo. “So there’s a Cuban business association, Driscoll. The city’s half Hispanic now. It’s natural they’re going to exert some influence…”

  “Some influence?” Driscoll rolled his eyes, turned back to the road, too disgusted to reply.

  No point in debating the ex-cop on the inevitability of change, Deal thought. Nor in pointing out that it had been just as much a good-old-boy network for the Anglos thirty years ago, when Deal’s father had built DealCo into a leviathan. Good timing for Deal’s money-from-anybody father, bad timing for straight-arrow Deal. Complaining about it was like complaining about the weather. What you did, Deal thought, was go out and do your work. Do the thing you were good at. Do your work and hope for the best.

  “I read about some of these guys, Driscoll,” Deal said. “Jorge Vas, some of his pals…”

  “Forget Vas,” Driscoll said. “Those are the politicians, the guys who go to Washington, get their pictures taken with the President. They’re out there where you can keep an eye on them. It’s a guy like Torreno who’s the real problem.”

  Driscoll spotted the gap in a tall hedge that bordered the narrow lane they were on and hit his brakes. He had to back up to make his turn down the entryway to the Terrell estate.

  “Torreno’s a behind-the-scenes player,” Driscoll continued. “A money man. A bad actor. And he controls the war chest.”

  “What are you talking about?” Deal asked, his gaze following the path of the car. They were crunching down a graveled alleyway now. In the distance were the unfinished turrets of Terrell’s one-day-to-be mansion. Just ahead was the cottage where Deal was staying. A possum scuttled across the road through the lights. Go to bed. Get up. Go to work. Kick it down the road, he thought.

  “Every Cuban who’s doing major business in South Florida—in the U.S., for that matter—kicks in. That’s where the money for the Bay of Pigs came from, for Chrissakes. It’s been coming in ever since, in a flood. Nobody knows how much, but it’s way, way up in the millions. They run a major lobby in Washington, a paramilitary camp out in the Everglades, a firing range. They got association houses, after-school programs for kids, a whole operation.”

  Driscoll pulled up in front of the cottage, killed the engine, the lights. A trash can toppled over behind the house, probably the possum foraging. Deal was ready to get out. “So they’re getting organized. I’m happy for them. It’s the American way.”

  Driscoll had turned toward him now. “According to Department intelligence, they got enough weapons and ordnance stored away in Dade County alone, they could take over most small countries if they had the army to use the stuff.” Driscoll shook his head. “Meantime, they bankroll these half-baked incursions you hear about in the papers, five or six kamikazes hit the beaches in Cuba, take a hosing from Fidel, anything for viva la revoluión.”

  Deal turned. “You’re telling me this megabucks Torreno also sends out college kids to break up a pissant program like tonight’s?”

  Driscoll shook his head. “He doesn’t have to. You heard that campus cop. Torreno and his buddies got so many people brainwashed, they make Barry Goldwater seem like a liberal. It’s worse than Scientology. The guys at the top work on the important stuff, the flunkies take every opportunity to raise hell.”

  Deal looked at him wearily. “I’ve lived here all my life, Vernon. A lot of things have changed. But I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me. Why would Torreno or any of these people want to burn down my building?”

  Driscoll stared, a little of the wind going out of his sails. “I dunno, exactly. But you heard Chuy-Chuy. I think somebody torched it. And another thing I know is, it don’t take much to set these people off.” He paused, gave Deal a look. “Now you were at that art museum a couple weeks ago, right? They invite a Cuban guy to show his paintings, BOOM! Bunch of people dead, a big chunk of Coral Gables goes sky-high.”

  Deal nodded.

  “Earlier that same day, right?” Driscoll said.

  Deal nodded again. “So what?”

  “So maybe nothing. But think back. Did anything happen while you were there? Anything unusual?”

  Deal stared at him, but he wasn’t seeing Driscoll. He remembered Janice, the feel of her in his arms, the cool, cavernous room.

  He finally shook his head. “They asked us to leave. They were getting ready for the opening that night…” Deal trailed off. He could still hear her laughter ringing into the crystal Miami sky.

  Driscoll took him by the arm. “You sign anything? A guest book, a ledger?”

  “Driscoll, you must be crazy. Just because I went into a museum…”

  “I’m not saying anything’s for sure, Deal. But Chuy-Chuy as much as told us…”

  Deal put his arm on Driscoll’s shoulder. “I heard him, Vernon. And I
was ready to kill him, but that doesn’t mean anything, except he was ready to say anything just to get away from you and he happened to push the wrong button. Don’t you understand? I was ready to kill that guy, and over what? Some vague suspicion?” Deal broke off, shaking his head. “I appreciate the help, Vernon. I really do. But tomorrow’s going to come early. I’m going to bed.”

  Driscoll started to say something, then thought better of it. He clapped his big paw over Deal’s. “Okay, pardner. I’ll see you around the fourplex.”

  He was about to drive away when he stopped and leaned over, shouting through the open passenger window. “Hey, Deal. Maybe it’d be easier on you, I took this place, you moved into my unit for the time being.”

  “Thanks, Vernon, but it’s okay. I need your rent.”

  “Hell, I’d still pay the rent. I’d be living here, wouldn’t I?”

  Deal tried to imagine how Terrence Terrell would find Driscoll as a tenant. “That’s all right. It’s your apartment, Vernon. I’ll feel better if you stay in it, as long as you’re happy, of course.”

  “Whatever you think,” Driscoll said. He lifted his big hand in a wave, and then he was gone.

  Deal watched the car go, heard the sound of the motor die away, heard the rustlings of the possum around back, tearing through a Hefty bag for a midnight snack. The air, ripe with the scent of the bay and with a hint of coolness in it, held him there, thinking about Driscoll’s suspicions.

  It was tempting to fall in with Driscoll, of course, fix all his sadness and outrage over a changing world on someone else. But it was loony. What interest would someone like Torreno have in Deal’s affairs? And as for the museum connection…

  Deal closed his eyes, willed himself to reconstruct their visit. A chance trip, something they’d decided on that morning, no one else even knew they were going. Nothing strange on the way in, nothing but interesting art to look at while they were there, save for a few other nondescript visitors—an elderly matron, a Japanese guy with a camera bag, a knot of high school girls in uniform—nothing memorable at all, except for the picture of Janice gathered into his arms, and he wasn’t going to think about that. Still, he could see her moving away from him, out of the gloomy building into the sunlight, laughing at his adolescent behavior. “And I had to sign our names to the guest register, Deal.…”

  He stopped then, her words echoing in his mind suddenly. He was already turning toward the sound of Driscoll’s departing car, ready to call out, “Wait…you were right, there was something.…” And then, just as suddenly, his excitement vanished, and he was left feeling more foolish than before. Sure, their names were on a guest register, all right, a register that would have gone up in smithereens in the blast, along with the guy who’d thrown them out. And even if there’d been time for someone to study the guest list, what did that mean? There hadn’t been any wave of fire-bombings on old folks, Japanese tourists, and high school girls, had there?

  The garbage can rattled again, and he saw the shape of the possum waddling away into the shadows, making snorting noises as if it were disgusted at the slim pickings there. No, Deal thought, they had seen nothing, done nothing, there was no hidden connection. That was the stuff of mysteries, of films that gave you the double and triple twist, and this was simply life. What seemed most logical was that Driscoll had quit the department too soon, before he had gotten to nail the bad guys he wanted worst, that was the only connection there was. Deal shook his head and turned back toward the cottage.

  He was tired to the point of wooziness, nearly asleep on his feet, the quiet of the forested Grove hissing into his ears until, for a few blessed moments, he had almost forgotten who he was, very nearly that he was. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness by now. He saw the pale white bloom of the possum waddling away into tall grass. He saw the glow of the city lights arc up into the sky, lap up toward the stars, and give out. He saw a shadow whisper past his ear, flutter to a halt in a live oak a few feet away.

  An owl, he realized. A tiny owl, the size of his fists clenched together. It sat on a branch a dozen feet from Deal’s nose and cocked its head at him. Its eyes were in shadow, but Deal felt himself being measured. Being measured for prey, he thought. And for a moment, although it was just a moment, he felt willing. Yes. Come on down, owl. He’d let himself be carried away.

  Chapter 21

  Driscoll parked the Ford on the street in front of the fourplex, rolled up the windows, but left the thing unlocked. He’d rather a thief just opened the door to see there was no radio, no CB, no nothing inside. Better that than having a window broken out first.

  He fished under the seat, found the gizmo that clamped on the steering wheel—something the dealer had tossed in—locked that into place. He shouldn’t have to worry about a car such as this being stolen—you’d think the thieves would have better taste—but Miami offenders seemed to be indiscriminate. His last car, a Ford Taurus, had been carrying 180,000 miles and practically no paint when somebody stole it for the third and final time.

  He stood back from the car and glanced through the windshield: the gizmo had a fluorescent plastic covering around its steel frame—it looked like someone had welded a neon axle to the wheel. Of course, a determined thief might simply hacksaw through the wheel on either side of the clamps, toss his unbeatable, cop-approved gizmo away and drive off, but Driscoll would just have to take that chance.

  He had seen a movie once where an engineer rigged his car up so that when the bad guy got inside, the doors locked themselves, the inside handles wouldn’t work, next thing a bomb went off and blew the asshole all to snot. Driscoll would love to have such a setup, minus the bomb, of course. Come out early in the morning, stretch, have a smoke, saunter down to the old sedan, see what you’d snared in your car trap. Be a glorious way to start the day. He glanced around the quiet neighborhood, saw nothing, heard nothing—especially no damnable TV blaring away—and was about to move on toward the house when he thought he saw a flicker of movement near the ruined side of the building. He checked his back again, thought about going inside for his piece, then decided against it. No more movement. Maybe it was just cop paranoia.

  Still, he thought, it wouldn’t hurt to check. He was across the dewy lawn quickly, up against the smoke-smudged walls and out of the glow of moonlight. He edged on toward the entryway, saw the door ajar, remembered he and Deal had left it propped that way the last time they were there.

  He waited a few moments, listening intently. He breathed in the still-pungent odor of scorched wood and smoke, heard the sigh of a breeze through the open timbers. But there was nothing else. Whatever he had seen had been his imagination playing tricks on him. Maybe Deal was right. Too many years looking for trouble, assuming the worst. Maybe the fire had started in an electrical box. Maybe he was turning into a sorry old bigot. Maybe…

  He had taken a couple of steps back across the lawn toward his apartment when something hit him hard from behind. He staggered forward, trying to keep his balance, then felt an arm lock across his throat. He tried to lurch back from the pressure, but whoever it was had his head clamped firmly in his other hand.

  Driscoll felt a pinging in his ears. Whatever there was to see in front of him—broken sidewalk, torn-up lawn, plainest new car in Miami—had been replaced by a red sheet of pain. He felt his fingers beginning to tingle already, his legs going numb. A few more seconds, he’d be out. A few seconds after that, he’d be dead. He had a flash: all the guys down at Metro waving goodbye, So long, Vern…Can we use those Manatees tickets…

  He flailed about with his arms reflexively, but it was useless: all he could grab was air. So this was it. No chance to get his papers tidied up, no putting in one last call to his brother in California, and who would take back the videotapes in his apartment, already two days late and he hadn’t stayed awake through either one of the goddamned things.

  They were staggering backward now, he and his assailant, guy wanting to get him back in the
shadows, finish the job, leave his body in the burned-out shell. Pinwheels and skyrockets exploding before Driscoll’s eyes now. Wheeeeee!!! Whoooaaa!!! Real Fourth of July stuff, Driscoll thought, feeling his legs still mince-stepping beneath him, but something else crowding into his brain too, a feeling that he had grown heavy, off balance, Sure, dumbshit, that’s why they call it “dead” weight, but maybe that meant he was a little heavy for whoever was holding him, surely having to support most of his weight now.

  Why had he been so careless? Why hadn’t he gone inside for his piece? Why had he gone over to the burn site in the first place? He could have missed this party altogether…

  …thirty years on the force and no gunshot wounds, no knife zippers, just a couple bottles over the head and his nose punched sideways a few times, he retires and look what happens, some pisswad takes him out in a breeze.

  Driscoll felt a little of the pain go away in a sudden surge of anger, anger directed as much at himself as the guy who was killing him…and he willed—no other way to put it, without question willed—his feet to keep on moving backward, urging them both backward, picking up the pace, in fact: one step, another, a bigger one, a bigger one yet…

  He felt himself gaining leverage now, the two of them hurtling along, and all he could hope was that they were going where he hoped they were, hoping that at least that something—anything—would get in their way. He felt the walk under his feet then, one solid foothold, then his heel hooking over the edge, and he shoved with all he had left, was either going to accomplish something or kick himself free, right off the planet…

  And felt a satisfying crunch as they hurtled into the side of the apartment building. They made a sandwich momentarily: Driscoll, the guy on his back, the scorched stuccoed side of the building. Driscoll heard a gasp as the breath went out of his attacker and took a momentary satisfaction in being way, way overweight—that’s what two-fifty feels like, friend. In the same instant, the grip at his throat was gone, and he could breathe again.