Miami Burn (Titus Book 1)

by John D. Patten

  His head tilted. “Her dad is that bozo? The plot thickens.”

  “Gets better,” I said. “I had a run-in with a lowlife named Eddie Corrado. Don’t know if he’s involved in all this, but he’s in with all the players. Plus, he threatened me and I had to—uh—reason with him.”

  “Be careful,” said Luther. “Eddie Corrado is nothing, but he work for Tommy Nero who I told you about yesterday. You get on Tommy Nero’s bad side and I be reading how they find pieces of your shark-eaten bones washing up by Pompano.”

  “Eddie Corrado works for Tommy Nero?” I said. “Interesting.”

  I blew some smoke away from him and stubbed out the cigarette. Then, I lit another one.

  “When you going to give up the Satan stick,” Luther said, “treat your body with respect?”

  “When I finish my task,” I said. “Then, I’m pretty much giving up everything.”

  “Your task of finding this rich college girl?”

  “No, something else.”

  “I thought so.” There was a long pause. “The same something else Officer Jezebel prevented you from doing, right?”

  I nodded.

  “At this very moment, though,” I said, “I have another pressing problem. I could use a confession, maybe some penance, bless-me-father-for-I-have-sinned, couple rosaries or something, that kind of thing.”

  “Can’t help you there,” he said. “I non-denominational. Plus, only God Himself can forgive sins. What sin did you commit, Brother Titus?”

  I turned and looked directly at him, wondering why I trust him enough to open up.

  “There’s a naked twenty-one year old girl in my bed,” I said. “Well, on my bed. It’s just an inflatable mattress on the floor. Surprised she didn’t run when she saw where I live, but she was likely in no condition to judge. I don’t know if I’m twenty-one or a hundred myself, because I feel like both this morning.”

  Luther folded his arms and frowned.

  “You need to take a good long hard look in the mirror,” he said. “Look at yourself—smoking, drinking, fornicating. I told you yesterday. Whatever burning you up inside is coming to your outside, setting fire to your soul. If you don’t let it go, you going to flame out and there be nothing left of you but a pile of ashes.”

  I blew out some smoke. “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Start with your body,” he said. “Strong mind fueled by a strong body. I run at sunrise every morning. I start down by 5th Street at the bottom of the park and then up to 25th and back, greet the Lord’s gift of a new day by thanking Him for my health and the magnificence of his vast ocean. Meet me there and we run together. Soon you won’t need no devil’s juice or Satan sticks or be corrupting girls almost half your age.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, my stomach rolling at the thought. “But right now, what do I do about what’s waiting for me back at my place?”

  “Pray to God for forgiveness,” he said, “then go and sin no more.”

  I exhaled and stubbed out the cigarette. “You’re a big help, you know that?”

  He shook his head and resumed his run.

  “Sunrise,” he shouted as he ran, “every morning, 5th Street, bottom of the park.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said and he was gone.

  I had consumed both coffees, so I stopped at Starbucks again on the way back and bought two more. I fought a street kid with a knife just hours ago without breaking a sweat, but as I neared my apartment my heart pounded out of my chest. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked in.

  No girl. No purse. No slinky little dress and panties. Just me and my lizard buddy.

  There was a note written in lipstick on the countertop. It read:

  Had a great time! Text me. =)

  With a phone number and a sprinkle of glitter.

  My heart calmed down. I sat at the table and sipped my coffee.

  Well, that was easy.

  I lay back down on the bed and went to sleep.

  TWELVE

  I WOKE UP AGAIN AT TEN, THE MORNING BRIGHT NOW. The flowery smell of Sash still lingered in the air, stinging the gaping chink in my armor.

  I lit a cigarette and lay there, flicking the ashes on the linoleum while reviewing the players again. Eddie Corrado, who works for some gangster named Tommy Nero. Jake Preston, living arrangements unknown, who is a royal prick-and-a-half. Morton Hinraker, one-time porn producer turned politician pal who has sex parties at his mansion on the water. JoJo Burley, waning TV star. Jason Stark, SoBe club set social-climber.

  Is there a connection between Eddie Corrado and Allie Hayes? If so, where does Jake Preston fit in with that? Jake Preston appears to have sex with several girls a day, maybe even an hour. Is Allie one of them? Is she okay with that? She can’t possibly still be with him. Pam Hayes must be wrong about that.

  If Pam Hayes is wrong about that, then this entire line of investigation is a waste of my time. But I know it’s not. I saw it in Jake Preston’s eyes when I said her name. My gut told me he knows something. I’m on the right track.

  Unfortunately, my gut has been wrong in the past. But I didn’t think so here. Lieutenant Randall always used to chide me for leaping to conclusions without evidence, always made a show of throwing it in my face when I was wrong. Thing is, I was right more than I was wrong.

  The next step was to get into a Hinraker party. My gut told me I would find my next clue there. Not sure what it will be nor how to go about getting it, but showing up is the first step. Then, I’ll shake things up and see what falls out. That’s what I do.

  But how do I get into Hinraker’s party? Jason said he doesn’t have the “cred” to get in. Jake Preston isn’t going to get me in, that’s for damn sure. Who can get me in? JoJo Burley?

  I puffed out a ring of smoke around the rather large oval portrait of JoJo Burley in my mind. If there was a way to get to him, maybe wrangle an invite . . .

  I booted up my Chromebook and ran an online search for ‘JoJo Burley.’ There he was, along with pictures from the TV show Gone. I found interviews, an IMDb profile, and a Wikipedia page. Looks like he grew up here in the Wynwood section of Miami, but now lives in a big house in L.A.

  An idea began to percolate in my head. I looked at the time on my phone. 10:25 a.m. I searched for Jason Stark on Facebook Messenger and found him quick. I sent a friend request and a message:

  You up?

  No response. I waited a few minutes and messaged again with my phone number:

  Want to party at Hinraker’s? Call me.

  My phone rang in two minutes flat.

  “Duuuuuuude,” said Jason.

  “Thought that would get you up,” I said. “I figured you probably rise in the late afternoon.”

  “Close. What time is it anyway?”

  “Ten-thirty.”

  “Shit.” He yawned. “You serious about Hinraker’s?”

  “Dead serious.”

  “Dude,” he said, “what happened last night with you and Eddie Corrado?”

  “What did JoJo and Eddie tell you?”

  Jason started talking but I couldn’t hear him. The couple upstairs had begun Act One. They probably sensed I was on the phone and needed to be bothered.

  “Hang on, Jason,” I said.

  I walked outside to the drab little courtyard and lit a cigarette under the sea grape tree. The heat was on High Inferno today. Not that it ever wasn’t.

  “Okay,” I said, “say that again.”

  “I was just saying that Eddie Corrado hates you, dude,” Jason said. “I mean, he really fucking hates you. I’m not even sure I should be talking to you. If anyone finds out, it could hurt my cred.”

  “I threw him out of a bar once. No big deal. So Hinraker’s? You. Me.”

  “Dude, how?”

  I blew out some smoke.

  “Stop calling me dude,” I said. “JoJo Burley. Ask him for an invite.”

  “Aw, dude—I mean, man—I can’t, especially not after last night.” There was
a rustling sound on his end of the line. His voice went a couple of notches lower. “Hey, that girl Bri—thanks for hooking me up with her, man. You wouldn’t believe what she likes to do.”

  “She told me,” I said.

  “Oh man, first she stuck her tongue in my—”

  “Hey!” I said in my shut-up tone, cutting him off. “Discretion. So, I need to speak with JoJo, maybe mend things up. You know where he’s staying?”

  “JoJo’s got a condo over at South Deluxe Towers. Multi-fucking-million dollar view of the ocean high up there. Owns like a whole goddamned floor. What are you thinking, man?”

  I finished my cigarette, stubbed it out, and walked back inside.

  “I’m thinking I go over and pay him a visit,” I said.

  “You can’t just walk up,” Jason said. “They’ve got massive security there. I mean fucking massive, man.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me about JoJo Burley that might help?”

  “Help? What do you mean? Like how help?”

  I sat down at my little table and stared at my empty airbed.

  “I mean,” I said, “think like a private investigator, Agent Stark. Who goes up there? How do they get in?”

  “Hm, let me think,” he said. “JoJo’s got family. They’re local somewhere. Don’t know if that helps. I do know he gets a massage every day.”

  “Every day?”

  “Yeah, guy named Guido. I met him once. Every day at two on the dot. Guido told me sometimes he has to kick JoJo to wake him up.”

  “Guido, huh? Is he independent or does he work through an agency?”

  “No idea, man,” said Jason. “Sorry.”

  While I was talking and smoking, I turned to my Chromebook and did an online search for ‘Guido’ + ‘massage’ + ‘Miami.’

  And there he was. Guido Lazzarone. Massage specialist. Miami Holistic Rejuvenation LLC. Full website with his picture.

  “Thanks, Jason,” I said. “I think that will work.”

  “What will work?” he said.

  “I’ve got a plan to get JoJo Burley to invite you and me to party at Hinraker’s.”

  “If you accomplish this, man, you have forever earned my total respect and devotion.”

  “Good to know.”

  My little lizard buddy scattered out onto the linoleum, looked around for the naked girl, saw she wasn’t here, and then left.

  Don’t blame him.

  “This is going to be epic,” said Jason.

  “What about your cred?” I said. “Being seen with me and all?”

  “Get me into Hinraker’s and my cred is golden. My social status automatically goes up ten notches.” There was another rustling sound. “Hey, someone wants to say hi.”

  Before I could ask who, a soft female voice said, “Hi, Titus.”

  Shit.

  “Hi, Bri,” I said.

  “I hope you’re not mad I left with your friend,” said Bri.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Sash texted me. She said you have mad skills. She was very impressed. I mean, like, very very impressed, if you know what I mean.” She giggled.

  “Yeah,” I said, unsure of how to respond to that, wishing a meteor would hit me.

  “I got your number from her. You and I should hook up sometime.”

  “Now, Bri, I don’t think—”

  “Hey, man,” said Jason, back on the phone. “So look, when are you hitting up JoJo Burley?”

  “What time did you say he gets his daily massage?” I said.

  “Two in the afternoon.”

  “Two in the afternoon, then.”

  THIRTEEN

  MIAMI HOLISTIC REJUVENATION LLC WAS REGISTERED to an address on Jefferson Ave, a two-story apartment building that looked like it might be owned by the same guy that owned mine, if the rotting lime green stucco was any indication. The white SUV out front had the business name stamped on its side with an ethereal New Age logo that looked like every other ethereal New Age logo.

  It may just be a gut feeling, but I don’t think Miami Holistic Rejuvenation LLC is rolling in cash. As I smoked a cigarette while leaning on a telephone pole, I watched Guido Lazzarone exit a door on the second floor, carrying what must be a folded massage table, and walk down the steps to his SUV. Small guy, about five-foot-four. Lean and fit with thick black hair and a face that could be anywhere from twenty to fifty. He wore a blue polo shirt, khaki pants, and boat shoes.

  Timing is everything in these situations. As Guido loaded the massage table into the back of the SUV, I counted down from ten-to-one slowly as I pushed myself off the telephone pole, pulled my revolver from its holster, and strolled across the street.

  There was probably a better way to do this. In fact, I’m sure there was a better way to do this—but I’m hung-over, cranky, and impatient. I want to solve this sooner rather than later so I’m taking things to what some people may call an extreme level.

  I approached the rear right side of the SUV just as Guido sat in the front left. As soon as I heard the door slam shut, I opened the right side door and slithered into the passenger seat, aiming the gun directly at Guido’s face—a face definitely closer to fifty than twenty.

  “Hi, Guido,” I said.

  He made a whimpering sound like he was going to cry.

  “Guido,” I said. “This has nothing to do with you. I need to speak to JoJo Burley. That’s where you’re headed, right?”

  His face was locked in an odd frozen expression. I sincerely hoped he wasn’t shitting his pants right now. Maybe I’m coming on too strong. Damn, I’m coming on too strong, aren’t I? I should have thought this through. Too late now.

  What was it Luther said? Impulsive, even a little unhinged.

  “Guido,” I said, “it’s okay to nod.”

  Guido made a tiny up-and-down gesture, his eyes so wide I thought one might fall out.

  “Now drive,” I said.

  He made a mouse-like sound and started the SUV.

  We followed Jefferson Ave south all the way to 2nd Street, where we turned right and then left onto Alton Road, which became South Pointe Drive.

  South Deluxe Towers is one of the latest condo developments on the south tip of the south end of South Beach. A zillion stories high, it’s a “monument to modern architecture”, or some bullshit that makes the Chamber of Commerce wet its collective pants. To me, it looks like a giant reptile sticking its tongue out at the Port of Miami.

  The security guard at the garage entrance was a kid in a khaki outfit with a ponytail and a long beard. He reclined in a tall chair with his feet up, absorbed in his phone. Not the “maximum security” I had been expecting based on Jason’s description.

  He recognized Guido’s SUV and waved him through without even seeing me. I noticed Guido was trying to get his attention, but whatever the kid was doing on his phone was far more engrossing.

  “I’m sorry, Guido,” I said as he parked the SUV. “I know you’re a good guy and I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt JoJo either. I just need to talk to him and I could think of no other way to get in here. I’m a private investigator. Shit. No, I’m not. Although, I have been hired privately to investigate something. So that sort of qualifies, right? I mean, sure I’m not sealed and stamped and certified and all that shit like Sofia says, but by the definition of the phrase private investigator, that counts, right?”

  Guido nodded. I think Guido would nod if I said I was Luke Skywalker.

  “Let’s do everything just the way you always do it normally,” I said. “Okay, Guido?” He nodded again. “Say okay.”

  “Okay,” he said. He sounded like his mouth was full of apple cobbler.

  We exited the SUV and Guido got the folding massage table out of the back. We walked over to a bank of elevators. Guido inserted a keycard with a shaky hand and the doors opened. Once inside, he pressed “24.” I tucked the gun behind my back for the security cameras and up we went.

  I looked over at Guido and smiled
. He didn’t smile back. I felt bad for him. Just a guy doing his job and here I am playing the part of some thug with a gun scaring the shit out of him.

  Fuck, I’ll have to make it up to him somehow. Maybe get a massage. No, I hate massages. Especially from guys.

  Ding! The doors opened.

  We stepped out into an anteroom with a spectacular view of the Port of Miami. Little bug-like dots moved around down there, dockworkers loading and unloading brightly colored shipping containers. I looked straight down. Directly beneath us close to the building, a sailboat gracefully drifted into Government Cut.

  To my right was a door. The decor was a modern fluorescent blue glass with lots of marble. There was a mirror over a stand with a vase of flowers by the door. A numbered keypad glowed with a red light.

  “What now?” I said.

  “N-now I en-enter the code,” Guido said.

  “Breathe, Guido, just breathe. Everything is going to be okay. Just enter the code.”

  He entered the code. The red light turned green and there was a click. He reached for the handle and turned it.

  The door opened into possibly the largest living room I have ever seen. The high ceiling beams, walls, and floor were a brilliant white. White modern chandeliers with white glass squares dangled artfully. There were several white rugs. The furniture was all black. Black chairs. Black dining set. A large glass coffee table sat in the epicenter of the large space surrounded by two black rounded sofas.

  Brilliant light streamed in from skylight windows that were at least three stories tall, leading up to a point, presumably the top of the building. Both sides of the room had floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a view of downtown Miami on one side and the Atlantic Ocean on the other. Several large glass doors opened out onto a wraparound deck.

  That TV show Gone must have made a lot of money.

  Guido and I stood there on the white marble floor for what seemed far too long. White marble steps led up to the entrance to a room that from here looked like it had an even higher ceiling, kind of like an airplane hangar.