Miami Midnight

by Alex Segura

  What were these flashes? Why was he imagining these things now? Had he really pushed away any thought of his mother that far down into himself? He’d never known her. Never spent time with her. So what were these dreams? Projections, hopes—or something more?

  Memories?

  Pete shook his head. “You can’t just barge in here, say something vague about my mom and how she died, and expect me to let you leave.”

  “You have no choice—and don’t put words in my mouth. I’ll tell my story when I’m ready. Now is not the time. You’re not truly alone, it seems like.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I need your full attention to discuss this. Now, I know you’re a good man,” Valdez said. “I’ve kept up with your exploits. I know you’re trying to live a good life. Your father would be proud. Your mother, too. Let’s talk tomorrow night. Here is my address—”

  Valdez jotted down a Little Havana address on a legal pad near the edge of the desk.

  “Come by around seven,” he said. “Be patient, hijo. It will be worth it. Thank you for humoring a sick old man.”

  “Sick? What’s the—”

  But before Pete could finish his thought, Osvaldo Valdez was gone.

  PETE SLEPT FITFULLY that night and awoke around six, his head pounding in a way that was familiar, but had nothing to do with one too many shots the night before. He rolled out of bed and walked into the living room of his tiny house in the quiet Westchester neighborhood of Miami. He’d been raised in the area, and his father’s house had been a few streets away before it was burned down a few years back, in an attempt on Pete’s and Kathy’s lives. This house reminded Pete a lot of the home he grew up in, so he didn’t regret the expense and relished the sense of home.

  He made his way toward the narrow kitchen and flicked on the coffeemaker. A sliver of sunlight peeked through the blinds. Pete poured himself a large glass of water and palmed a few Aleve. He’d spent the remainder of the night pacing his small office before calling it around three in the morning, exhausted and angry. At himself for not chasing after Valdez. At the old man for coming into his office and derailing his day; hell, his life—a life he had tried to keep simple and focused over the last year.

  He was left with questions about everything. What did Valdez know about his mother? Was there more to her death than what he’d been told since he could remember? And what of those visions—memories?—that seemed to explode in his mind as Valdez spoke? The images and flashes of action felt so real—like a sudden dream, his senses on fire, awakening for the first time. It all led to one bigger question that Pete, drunkenly scrambling for his life for the last few years, hadn’t had time to process: What did he really know about Graciela Fernandez?

  Pete pondered as he poured himself a large mug of black coffee and scanned the notifications on his phone. One missed call: Kathy.

  He’d left her a long, rambling message last night—touching on the Valdez news, but also wishing her well.

  “Look, Kathy, I’m sorry if I seemed distant and weird tonight,” he’d said, stammering, but unburdened by the release the voicemail brought. “You know how I feel. How I’ve felt. Things got so derailed when that …when I got hurt. I can’t expect you or anyone to sit around and wait for me to act, or that it even matters. What I’m trying to say, I think, is that I am happy. I’m happy for you—happy that my friend has found someone like Marco. I wish you guys the best, and I hope that I am at least in the running for maid of honor.…”

  Pete snapped back. His phone buzzed. He checked the display and picked up.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Open your door, loser.”

  He walked over to the front door and followed instructions. Kathy was on the other side, looking like she hadn’t slept at all. A fading black T-shirt, jeans, and last night’s mascara. She walked in before Pete could say anything.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Again, good morning.”

  She stopped in his living room and turned around, forcing Pete to hit the brakes to avoid crashing into her. Their faces were inches apart.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Having coffee?”

  “No, not literally, like, this instant,” she said, her face crinkling in frustration. “I mean, in general—to me.”

  “I—have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Pete-fucking-Fernandez, of course you do. I thought we put all this to bed when you left for New York?”

  “Kathy, help me out here—”

  Spell it out.

  She let out a sigh, turning away from him, hands on her hips.

  “I’m glad you’re alive. I’m glad you’re healthy,” she said. “I’m happy to be friends, but this sad-eyed puppy dog thing you’re doing ... it’s not sustainable. It’s actually pretty fucking annoying.”

  Pete didn’t respond. He waited a beat as she paced around his house.

  “Here’s the thing. We’re friends,” Kathy said, gripping her hands together, as if she was pleading with Pete. “We can’t be anything else. We tried it. It did not work. I moved on. Then you left, got shot, got better, and here we are. Just because you want things to be different doesn’t mean they will be, okay?”

  “You’re right.”

  She looked up at him, as if he’d interrupted her during a speech on the Senate floor.

  “What?”

  “You’re right,” Pete said. “I need to give up the ghost. It’s not fair to behave that way—to you, or to me. Like I said on the phone, I—ah, shit. Look, I just need to give it some time. But me acting this way just makes it toxic.”

  “Well, I was not ... expecting that. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Pete said. “Coffee?”

  “God, yes.”

  She followed him into the kitchen and leaned on the counter as he poured her a fresh cup.

  “It sounds like you had an eventful evening.”

  “Despite my best efforts,” Pete said, handing her the mug. He took a spot next to her on the counter. “Do you know Alvaro Mujica?”

  “Ex-Bay-of-Pigs war hero turned Miami illegal-gambling don,” she said. “Broad strokes, yeah. But last I heard he was retired.”

  “That’s what I thought. And he might still be, but why would his attorney-slash-art dealer reach out to me?”

  “Who can say, my dear? You didn’t hop into his car in the middle of the night to find out.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  “On my list of things I blame you for, that does not make the top ten. Twenty, even,” she leaned into him playfully.

  “Did you really just come here to yell at me about last night?”

  “Yes, isn’t it obvious?” she said, motioning over her attire. “I’m wearing whatever I found on the floor, unshowered, and probably still drunk.”

  He moved toward her. Slowly. Giving her time to step back, to decline the advance. She didn’t.

  Pete caressed her face, a light touch, brief and instinctual. She responded, hesitant at first, but then moved her face toward his hand, kissed his fingertips as they slid past her lips. He moved his hand to the back of her neck, cupping her head as she leaned over, his face close to hers, her hand sliding over his face.

  “Pete …”

  They shared a slow, exploratory kiss, their lips connecting and disconnecting, their mouths hesitant but hungry for more. Kathy pulled back, her hand still on Pete’s face. Then she moved in for another kiss, longer, more thoughtful and slow, before pulling away and locking her eyes on his.

  “You are unbelievable,” she said, kissing him again, her breathing growing heavy. “Fuck.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pete said, his body now leaning into hers, his hands sliding up the back of her shirt. “I —”

  “Jesus, shut up for once,” she said, and kissed him again. “Just stop talking.”

  THEY’D BARELY MADE it into the bedroom before they were kissing again, this time with more purpo
se, their hands tugging and sliding over each other, their mouths open and lingering, searching on instinct and a need to feel something. By the time they wrestled each other onto Pete’s bed, his shirt was lost on the hallway floor along with Kathy’s top and jeans.

  He slid his hands behind her back, unlatching her bra and felt her smile as he kissed her.

  “Not your first time, huh?” she said, her voice husky and hungry.

  She helped Pete yank his pants off and toss them to the floor. She ran her fingers over his boxers and lingered on him before she started inching the shorts down, pulling him toward her as she lay back on the bed.

  Her hand still on him, she scooted her underwear off with a swift motion of her free hand, lifting her ass up and pushing them down fast, her eyes still on Pete, her hand still on him.

  And then he felt her soft gasp, his mouth on her neck, her lips next to his ear, sounds of pleasure and surprise spilling out, mixing together, quiet at first but getting louder.

  Pete tried to say something, but she shushed him with a slow finger over his lips and he felt himself start to move with her. They leaned into each other, and he was overcome by instinct. Her noises seemed to be speeding up with each move their bodies made together, until she clamped her hands on his shoulders and he felt her tighten around him. Then he was gone, too, feeling the familiar wave of surprise. She pulled him closer, her mouth on his, desperate to stretch the moment out.

  As Pete collapsed next to her, shaking with feeling, they wove together and settled, their arms and legs tangled. He kissed her forehead, sliding a hand over her cheek as she let her arms wrap around him, and allowed sleep to take them away.

  Pete awoke and rolled over to check his phone. It was ten in the morning. The bed was empty, but he heard Kathy making noise in the kitchen. He cursed under his breath. He slid into his boxer shorts and T-shirt and made his way toward the sounds. He found her looking through a cabinet over the sink. She was already back in the clothes she’d worn when she arrived.

  “Do you not have sugar in this house?” she asked.

  “Next to the coffeemaker.”

  She swiveled around, not looking at him. She grabbed the sugar and poured an unhealthy amount into her cold coffee mug from a few hours before.

  “Call me later,” she said, taking a long swig from the mug before setting it down in the sink. “I think we have a lot to talk about. Just not right now.”

  She turned around and looked at him. Her eyes seemed tired but not angry, which brought Pete some relief.

  “If this is happening, like really happening, it can’t be this way forever, okay?” Kathy said. “I hope that makes sense.”

  Pete nodded.

  Kathy turned around and walked out.

  Pete looked up at the clock hanging over the door to the living room. He had some time to kill before his meeting with Valdez. He took a quick shower and considered how complicated his life had become in less than a day.

  He got dressed and made sure to grab the paper he’d stuffed into his suit jacket pocket the night before. He had to find an old friend. But first he needed to clear his head.

  THE MIAMI AIKIKAI was the oldest aikido dojo in Miami—open for more than forty years. Pete had been coming a few times a week for months, ever since he’d been given clearance from his doctors to resume activities that were more strenuous than getting out of bed or pouring a glass of water.

  Allie had been right, to some degree, Pete thought as he changed into his gi—or uniform—in the gym’s expansive locker room. He was preparing for something. Bracing for something, really. As simple as his life had gotten—by design and by force—at any point, something could blow up. A shadow could crawl through the cracks and find its way to him. He was a magnet for harm, and he wasn’t going to cross his fingers and hope he could skate by. Not anymore.

  But he wanted to do it his way. If he’d come out of his near-death experience with anything, it was a sense of how valuable life was, and how careless he’d been with it. He’d killed people. He’d shot people. He’d hit people with cars. Okay, he wasn’t a mass murderer, but he’d also been forced to use extreme measures to make up for his relative inexperience. No longer. If he was going to use violence—as a means to an end or to defend himself—he was going to be smart about it. Aikido fit the bill perfectly.

  Aikido was a fairly modern Japanese martial art, one that synthesized spirituality and self-defense. The idea was to focus on defending yourself while also not inflicting excessive harm on your attacker. The spiritual side focused on energy—and the idea that by choosing this kind of self-defense, you were unifying, rather than dividing, your life energy. Heady stuff. But Pete had come to look forward to these weekly practice sessions that in a way that felt akin to an AA meeting. He felt lighter when he was done—physically spent and also mentally clear.

  He needed clear right now.

  The reunion with Kathy had been good, Pete thought, but his life would soon get much more complicated. And it was his own fault. He replayed it in his head as he practiced a few tenkan movements in front of the sparring floor’s wall-to-wall mirrors. It was still relatively early—too late for the before-work crowd, too early for the midday rush—so the place was empty. Which is what Pete wanted. Room to breathe. Time to think.

  He loved her, he knew that. Before Salerno almost murdered him, he had told her as much. But even then, Kathy had been clear—she wanted his friendship and partnership. She wasn’t sold on the idea of Pete as Boyfriend. When he returned to Miami, bruised and battered, she was a constant presence—but kept him at arm’s length when she felt he was getting too attached. Eventually, Pete took the hint. Eventually, Marco showed up and swept Kathy off her feet. It should’ve been a done deal.

  Pete turned to face the mirrored walls and practiced a few variations of irimi, or entering—taking steps toward an attacker. He felt the sweat start to coat his body. Felt his blood pumping. Adrenaline. He welcomed it. He needed it.

  “Where have you been, Pete?”

  He couldn’t shake the vision of Kathy from the night before, half-drunk, face beautiful and glowing as she caught a glimpse of Pete. This is how she really feels, he’d thought then. But he’d buried it. Pushed it aside. He knew it’d be wrong to even try to engage with her on that level, but when she came into his apartment, he’d stopped caring. But momentary pleasures can have lasting consequences.

  He tossed his towel on the floor and did a top-speed run-through of the moves. It wasn’t clicking. The physical was there, but his head wasn’t in it. He cursed under his breath as he walked back toward the locker room. He tried to shake the feeling that his easy life was careening toward something darker, like a car spinning off a bridge into a foggy, black river.

  PETE WAS A tracker. It was part of being a PI. You found people. Oftentimes, that was the bulk of your business. Even now, “retired,” Pete could call upon the tools of his trade to locate even the most slippery individual. And, with Harras’s help, he had to tap into those tools to find this particular person.

  Pete’s search had brought him to the streets of Overtown, a neighborhood that had seen it all. Once pulsing with music and life, the Overtown city limits were now an expanse of vacant lots, the distant honking of horns replacing the lively jazz brass that dominated the area.

  Known as the “Harlem of the South,” Overtown was a historically black neighborhood in Northwest Miami, and stands as one of the oldest in Miami, founded in 1896. At the beginning of the twentieth century, Overtown had been carved out for the black workers building the city’s nascent infrastructure—railroads, streets, buildings. Like many of the country’s biggest and best cities, Miami survived on the back of black and marginalized labor, who made up the bulk of the city’s workforce.

  In the twenties, the neighborhood was a segregated area, or “Colored Town.” Overtown still managed to be a hotbed for the arts, and Northwest Second and Third Avenues were loaded with jazz clubs hosting legends like Lena Horne
and Cab Calloway, as the stars did pop-up gigs while touring through South Florida. Then I-95 bulldozed the neighborhood, closing businesses and forcing families to abandon their homes.

  Despite the setbacks, segregation, and poverty that marred large stretches of Overtown’s history, the neighborhood found a way to thrive as a hub of business, arts, and culture. But even the area’s best efforts were often derailed by the country’s perpetually unstable and toxic racial climate. Over the years, Overtown had been the scene of various violent clashes—most notably the McDuffie riots of 1980. These days, the streets remained in a constant state of flux, faded storefronts mingled with new, shinier businesses. An ever-changing swath of streets and a community constantly striving to pull out of a decades-long tailspin.

  Pete parked his car on Northwest 14th Street. He got out and tried to keep pace with the man, who was looking around nervously, his hands buried deep in his overcoat pockets. The coat was another sign that the man was out of sorts, seeing as how the temperature was creeping toward 90 degrees on this typical Miami day. Pete already felt his shirt sticking to his body and the atmosphere around him getting thicker, the humid air creating an invisible fog of heat.

  Overtown, like many working class or impoverished areas, was being eaten alive by the opioid epidemic. Junkies wandered the streets, burnt spoons and needles littered the ground. Harras had pointed Pete here, but he was pretty sure he would’ve made his way here first anyway. If you wanted to score, this was the place to go.

  The man turned around, catching Pete off guard. A glint of recognition appeared in the pair of glazed, hazy eyes before he pivoted down into an alley.