by A. C. Fuller
He nodded, then looked down at his phone. Clearly, he wasn’t interested in chatting.
“Quick thing, bro. Then we’ll be gone, I swear.”
Leaning over the glass, he took a long pull from the straw. “What?”
“You know where Ana Diaz lives?”
For Cole, fear was one of the easiest emotions to read, especially in non-criminals. Like most animals, humans try to take up less space when they’re afraid. At the mention of the name “Ana Diaz,” Ben’s shoulders tensed and pulled in toward his ears. His neck muscles tightened. But even if they hadn’t, his mouth and eyelids told the story. Mouth shut tight, his jaw popped. The patch of skin below his eyes grew taught.
Cole saw the reaction as if in slow motion.
After a few seconds, he shook his head, not saying a word.
But his body had said plenty.
“Dude,” Pipo said, “that’s caca and you know it. You guys did a live spot from her bank, and I know you were producing that segment.”
“Why you keeping track of what segments I produce?”
“Bro, I’m like the biggest fan of your show. I didn’t want to have to go here, but you owe me. You know what I’m talking about.”
Ben looked up and down the bar, which had started to fill with bikini-clad women, oiled-up men, and a few pasty-faced tourists. He leaned across the bar, grabbed a napkin and a pen, and scrawled an address. He handed it to Pipo. “Shred this when you get there, or eat it. I could get fired for giving you this.”
His words said he could get fired, but his face betrayed what he really thought. It was something worse than fired.
* * *
The address was less than a mile north on Ocean Drive. On the east side of the street, it was a huge beachfront estate surrounded by a stone wall about six feet high. Aluminum poles had been drilled into the stone every six feet, chain link strung between them and barbed wire angled toward the street.
Walking confidently, Pipo rang a bell outside an imposing entry gate.
“You really think they’re gonna let us in?” Cole asked.
“C’mon, mama. Pipo can talk his way into any house in Miami.”
She was about to make fun of him for speaking about himself in the third person when two men emerged from a large garage. The larger of the two, who was the size of Cole and Pipo combined, marched up to the gate. He wore a cream-colored linen suit with a bright white shirt. “What is it?”
“What up, bro?” Pipo extended a hand through the gate.
Ignoring the gesture, the man said, “You have exactly five seconds to tell me why you’re here.” Beside him and standing about a yard behind, the other man took off his sunglasses, folded his arms, and glared at them. He wore a similar suit in powder blue and his gleaming bald head matched the first man’s.
“Bro, my friend here needs to talk with Ana Diaz. It’s urgent.”
“She doesn’t live here.”
Cole tried to read him as he spoke, but sunglasses hid his eyes and his chiseled face didn’t quiver. If he was lying, she couldn’t tell.
“Bro, c’mon. She lives here.”
“Time’s up.” The man turned.
The other shot a cold look at Cole, then at Pipo. He put his sunglasses on and followed the other back into the garage.
Cole pulled her wallet out of her hip purse and held out two hundred dollars.
“No hurry, mama, you can pay me after we get drinks. Tequila, tequila.”
She shoved the money into his hands. “I’m gonna have to take a rain check.”
She needed to get back to Warren, and fast.
9
“I can’t tell you exactly why I’m here,” Warren said, “but let’s say someone is going to get killed.” SG shot him a look. “Someone big in Miami. Ring any bells?”
His old CI thought for a moment. “It might.”
“What can I do to jog your memory?”
“Well, everybody wants to kill the owner of the Marlins, you know, the baseball team.” He chuckled. “They’ve sucked for years.”
“And that’s probably true of half the sports franchises in the country.” He knew how angry he’d gotten at the owners of his favorite teams, but there had been a sports connection on Cole’s list. “You heard anything specific on that?”
“Nah.”
“Let’s try an experiment. Don’t think, just answer: who runs Miami?”
“Since the Trafficante family fell apart, things have spread out. They say Lady Chicharrón is running most of the coke now, but who knows?”
“Lady Chicharrón?”
“Money bags. Young woman. Cuban and Italian. Niece of someone from one of the New York families…maybe Vegas. I don’t know. Just a name you hear whispered.”
“Real name?”
He shrugged.
“But you’re saying, if someone big is about to get taken down, she’d know.”
“Or would have ordered it. Look, I don’t know, but from what I hear, no organized shit goes down in Miami without her blessing.”
“Thanks, SG. Any other ideas?”
“Shouldn’t even have told you that.”
Warren walked to the door, pulling out his phone to order an Uber.
“Rob.”
Warren stopped and turned, hand on the door. “What’s up?”
“I’m not SG anymore. My mother named me Harold Jackson. That’s what I go by now.”
* * *
Warren leaned on the old brick of the bait shop, happy to take a little weight off his prosthetic leg while the hot sun warmed his face. Before he lost his leg, he could run for miles without fatigue. Now he was a fast-twitch guy. Boxing, a few sprints. He could climb a sixty-foot rope in just over thirty seconds. But the run through Alexandria and the Arlington National Cemetery had left his leg sore.
He Googled “Lady Chicharrón, Miami,” not expecting to find anything. He shook his head in disbelief at the first listing.
In 2018, even mob bosses had Wikipedia pages.
It quickly made sense why SG had mentioned her. He had no way of knowing if it was true, but according to Wikipedia, Lady Chicharrón ran much of the crime in South Florida.
Maria Battle, (aka Lady Chicharrón), born April 3, 1976 (age 43), is an American businesswoman alleged to be involved in organized crime such as gambling, money laundering, and murder.
Early Life
Rumored to be the illegitimate daughter of famed Miami organized crime leader Jose Miguel Battle, Sr.—who ran Miami’s largest organized crime family known as The Corporation—Ms. Battle grew up in Miami, attended elite boarding schools in both New York and Boston, then received a bachelor’s degree in economics from the University of Miami.
She financed a variety of films in the early 2000s, with money rumored to come from her father.
Career
After leaving the film business, it’s unclear what legal businesses she engaged in, if any. Though she is the registered owner of three properties in Miami, it is believed she travels often and is no longer a legal partner in any U.S. businesses. It is also believed by some in law enforcement that she laundered money for many lower-level drug dealers using low-budget films. Her expertise in finance, plus her connection to her father, allowed her to make the transition into the Miami drug world.
Personality
Known to have a violent streak, when bored as a young woman, she would say: "I have to fight someone." She allegedly stabbed a rival gang leader in 2011, and drove a car into the shop window of another enemy in 2008. A big soccer fan, she’s rumored to be a secret shareholder in at least two MLS teams and has often bet on and fixed games.
Cultural References
She was mentioned by her nickname, Lady Chicharrón, in the 2017 rap song, “305 ’til I Die,” by The Young Palms.
It was one of the worst Wikipedia articles he’d ever read, and it was marked with a note: “This article's factual accuracy is disputed. It needs additional citations for verification.”
Even for a site on which anyone could add information, it was sloppy and incomplete. Still, it was something. He needed to get back to the hotel to reconnect with Cole.
Warren: Heading back now. You get anything?
As his Uber pulled up, his phone dinged with a message.
Cole: Tell you when I see you. Meet at the Cuban restaurant on the corner by the hotel in twenty minutes.
10
They were halfway through dinner—matching plates of white rice, black beans, smoked pork, and crispy fried plantains—by the time they finished recounting their days. Cole caught the waiter’s eye and held up her empty mojito glass.
“You sure you want another?” Warren asked. “We need to stay sharp.”
“What we need is creative thinking. One loosened me up. Two will make me brilliant.”
Warren laughed. “If you say so. But, for real, the guy at the hotel, the security at the Diaz estate...what does it mean?”
“Ana Diaz is the next victim, and I think she knows it. No listed address, no listed phone number. And security that rivals a president’s. I think she’s hiding out. And maybe the guy at the hotel was afraid because she’s more than just a banker. Ambani, Meyers. You said yourself that they were involved in some shady stuff, despite their stellar resumes. Maybe Diaz is, too.”
Warren moved the beans and rice to the corner of his plate and took a bite of the meat. “Let’s say you’re right about Ana Diaz. And let’s say that Lady Chicharrón ordered the hit. How does that add up?”
Cole considered this as the waiter set down the mojito. “Maybe whoever is ultimately behind these killings went to Lady Chicharrón for permission, paid her crew to allow the hit. This is her territory, right? If they’re gonna let The Truffle Pig down here for the hit, they’d need her blessing.”
“Could be, but I don’t know how they’d get access to her.”
They dropped into silence. Cole watched him finish the meat. She spooned half of her meat onto his plate and helped herself to some of his beans and rice. The restaurant was growing loud and the lights had dimmed.
Ever since their sprint through Arlington National Cemetery, she’d been haunted by an ambiguous guilt. A feeling that something was wrong, that she’d done something wrong.
She leaned across the table. “Earlier you asked what’s driving me, and I think I might know. Matt was a good guy. A genuinely good guy. For the first couple years of our relationship—and I’m not proud of this—I used to nitpick him, try to get a rise out of him. Maybe it’s because my mom used to do that to my dad, or maybe I just wanted to bring him down to my level. Maybe I—” Her voice cracked and she closed her eyes. Gathering herself, she said, “Never mind. After a couple years, I stopped. I think it took me that long to realize he loved me as I was.” She sighed. “I don’t know. I didn’t feel worthy. And I know that’s stupid, but it’s how I felt. Now that he’s gone, it’s like I’m chasing a ghost. No, that’s not it. It’s like a ghost is chasing me. A ghost of goodness, pushing me on, trying to make me do something good, something worthwhile. The alternative is too terrible.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“Death.”
“Huh?”
“Not literally, but—”
“If you keep drinking those booze-shaped candy bars, it might be.”
“Lemme finish. I think I’m afraid that if I don’t keep racing forward, keep writing the next story, I’ll crash and burn. Hole up in my apartment and fall into a tequila nightmare.”
“Been there.” Warren shrugged. “I mean...for me it was Courvoisier and coke.”
“I know. I guess I’m afraid I’ll crash. Depression. Like you said back in New York.”
“One thing I learned in rehab is that you can’t outrun this stuff. Whatever’s in you—one way or another—it’s coming out.”
The sentence hit her like a slap to the face. Whatever’s in you—one way or another—it’s coming out. She’d been denying this for three years, and she wouldn’t be able to deny it much longer. “If I’m honest, I don’t know if I care whether whoever is behind these attacks kills everyone on their list, assuming there’s a list. I want to make Matt happy. To prove I’m worthy. Michael Wragg knew something about us, and that’s what’s driving me.”
The dream hit her like a punch to the chest, like a traumatic memory from long ago returning all at once. She could see Matt, gasping for air, choked out by a fellow Marine. She opened her mouth to tell Warren, but nothing came out. She was afraid it would make the dream more real than it already felt.
They were silent for a long while. Finally, Cole put on her peppiest voice and said, “Well, that was a bit of a downer. Do something for me: tell me your best military story.”
“What do you mean?”
“Funniest story. Matt didn’t ever tell me about violence, about the hard stuff. He told me about the funny stuff—the down time waiting for something to happen. He always said the real motto of the Marines was, ‘Hurry up and wait.’”
“I can confirm that.”
“I wrote words for a living, so he always tried to entertain me with stories. Once he told me about the captain of some aircraft carrier who woke up hung over and wandered down to breakfast. Sitting there, drinking his coffee, the sun was in his eyes, exacerbating his headache. Dude sent a message to turn the ship a few degrees, just so the sun wouldn’t be in his eyes anymore.”
Warren chuckled. “Heard that one. Not sure it’s true, but it’s a damn good story.” He rubbed his chin, thinking. “Frank Undercroft.” His face lit up, an irrepressible smile Cole had never seen from him. “Dude was the single greatest liar I ever knew. And handsome as hell. Looked like Tom Cruise’s better-looking younger brother. Every damn word out of his mouth was a lie, but he was so entertaining, no one cared. He lied about little things and big things and everything in between.”
“Like what?”
“Dude was your size—no offense—and said he played linebacker at Notre Dame. Told us his grandfather was Quincy Jones. He was a white dude from Maine. Said he’d won the World Series of Poker, twice. His lies were so sincere, and so bald-faced, you couldn’t tell if he was nuts or if he was just messing with everyone.”
Cole smiled. Matt would have liked that story.
“About three months in country, Frankie got captured in Kandahar. Took us three days to get him back.”
“How’d you get him back? Prisoner swap?”
Warren nodded, smiling. “We rounded up ten of their guys and made the swap.”
Cole swigged her mojito and chased it with coffee. “So what’s funny about that?”
“His lies saved his ass. Saved. His. Ass. So, Frankie gets back to base and for a few hours he’s saltier than the Dead Sea. ‘Why’d it take us so long to rescue him?’ All that shit. But by dinner, he’s back to his old self, telling stories.”
Cole had never seen Warren so enthusiastic, other than during workouts. But that was a more intense enthusiasm. His boyish glee in talking about his brothers in the Marines was something she’d never seen.
“Over dinner Frankie tells us about the three days as a POW. His captors knew better than to torture him, but he tortured the hell out of them. One of them spoke broken English—probably from movies and YouTube videos—and Frankie spent the whole three days bullshitting him non-stop. Dude spun a river of shit so deep he nearly drowned the Taliban. He was a movie star, Tom Cruise and Meryl Streep’s secret love child, sent to Afghanistan to research a role in the next Mission Impossible movie. A songwriter, he’d written hits for Celine Dion and Britney Spears in the nineties, and keep in mind, he would have been like fourteen years old then. An accomplished chef, he’d invented the hamburger and was in the Guinness Book of World Records for making the largest falafel in world history. Apparently, this last one got the attention of someone in the crew, and by the third day he was cooking their meals.” Warren shook his head wistfully.
“You miss him,” Cole said. “Miss it.”
He nodded. “Routine. Structure. Camaraderie. Marines gave me that. Once I lost that, things didn’t go as well.” He smiled. “Speaking of mottos, you know what Marines say after we transition back to the normal world? ‘You hate it when you’re in. You miss it like hell when you’re out.’”
“Where’s Frankie now? In Hollywood writing screenplays, I hope.”
“Dunno. When I got injured and sent home, our unit got folded into another unit. Last I heard he was in Vegas doing private security or something.”
“I bet he—” Warren’s shoulders had tensed, stopping Cole halfway through the sentence. He was staring over her right shoulder. His eyes flashed and he looked at the table.
“Don’t turn around,” he said. “Two guys at the table behind you.”
“What?”
“I’m not certain, but I think they followed us in.”
Everything in her wanted to turn and look for herself, but she didn’t. “The guys from D.C.?”
“Not the one I fought.” Warren waved down the waiter and handed him a credit card. When the waiter came back, Warren signed the bill without looking at it. “Walk toward the bathroom casually, then through the door that leads into the kitchen. There’ll be a back door. I’ll be right behind.”
11
Loose from the mojitos but not yet wobbly, Cole strolled toward the bathroom as casually as possible. She couldn’t stop herself from glancing at a large mirror hung on the brick wall. The specials of the day were scribbled in bright marker: chorizo tamales, ham croquettes, codfish empanadas. She saw a man’s head turn. He had shoulder-length white hair and a pale, saggy face. Their eyes met in the mirror. He looked away immediately. Across from him sat a handsome younger man, maybe twenty-five. Bald, with bronze skin and a square jaw.
Turning the corner, she paused at the bathroom door, then cut into the kitchen.
A man in an apron blocked her path. “The restrooms are behind you, ma’am.”
