Dead Fast

by A. J. Stewart

  “Nah, you’d want something like that Magnum Marine 80 down there. This thing would light up the radar.”

  “You’d know.”

  “Yeah. Listen, this fella’s comin’ down in about an hour and I’d like to make her sparklin’ for him. You okay to catch up for lunch? Monty’s, in an hour?”

  “See you then.”

  I took a walk back along the marina out onto the promenade, through South Point Park, where a group of athletic-looking folks in Lycra were doing lunges and spider crawls on the lawn. I wandered around them and over the sand hills covered in wispy grasses, and sat on the beach. I was south of South Beach, past all the action, the clubs and bars and art deco hotels. This part of the coast felt more like Cape Cod, a cooling breeze and foaming waves breaking on the beach. The main difference was the towering hotel and apartment complexes standing over the beach at the southern point. I sat for a while, not thinking about anything for a change, watching a flock of gulls play tag with the ebbing and flowing ocean, breathing in some good sea air, and then I stood and brushed off and wandered back along the promenade, until I got back to Monty’s.

  I asked the girl at the desk if Lucas had arrived and she said no, and directed me to a vacant stool at the bar by the pool. Monty’s was a little too spring break for me, with the view and the pool, but it was during term and many of the snowbirds were already making the trek back to New England or Michigan or Quebec, so the crowd was light and the vibe was easy. I ordered a Sam Adams and was two sips in when Lucas arrived. He flopped down on the stool next to me and pointed at my beer to order one of his own.

  “What’s news?” he asked, sipping his beer.

  “Just got back from Jamaica.”

  “Don’t say.”

  “Yeah. Good place, you’d like it.”

  “I’m alright here, mate. So what brings you to the big smoke?”

  “I met a kid in Jamaica. Good kid, fast runner. Brought him over to meet some folks at the university. He might have a shot at a scholarship.”

  “Nice.”

  I nodded and sipped my beer. I gave Lucas the short version of goings-on with Winston and Richmond and Prestwich, and the whole sports administrator boondoggle thing. In his line of work Lucas dealt with a lot of rich and famous people, and heard a lot of things. I wondered if he knew anything about the proposed Miami Olympic bid.

  “I’ve heard rumblings, sure. I think the whole show’s a waste of time, but not all folks agree. Some important people are going on about how it will make Miami an international capital. Like they’ve never walked around town and listened to all the languages going on around them.”

  “Where’s the bid money coming from?”

  “The usual places, mate. The state will be kicking a bit in, and the city of Miami. The tourism guys. Then there’s private sources, companies who wanna get their pound of flesh out of the whole shebang.”

  “How would they handle the money, do you think?”

  “Crikey, mate, how do you reckon? You know there’ll be two sets of books. One for all the official stuff, and then the payola.”

  “You know anyone who might be involved in the latter?”

  “Is this Miami or is this Miami?” He pointed out to the docks. “Look at all those boats. Now I’m not saying it’s all ill-gotten gains, but it ain’t a church bake sale either. This is one of the drug capitals of the world. You know that better than most.”

  I did know better than most. I had been involved in a case with a drug cartel in Miami that nearly ended badly, and I resolved it with Lucas’s help, and with considerable prejudice.

  Lucas continued. “Those boys know how to move cash. So I’d be looking at your end points, and whether they have any links to anyone who might know a good deal about money laundering.”

  I wondered about that for a moment. Winston’s best connection to the US was through athletes he had sent here, and the best connection they would have to South Florida would be through the Jamaican community in Lauderhill. I was tossing around whether I knew anyone in that community who might know something about moving money, and decided that I did, when my phone rang. I picked it out of my pocket and looked at the screen.

  “Hey, Aaron, how’s the tour going?”

  “Not good, my friend, not good.”

  “Why? What’s happening?”

  “Your boy’s doing okay. But I got a guy turned up here claiming to be the kid’s agent.”

  “His agent?”

  “Yes. And I told you, I can’t have any NCAA issues. If the kid has an agent, he’s out. I need him off the campus today.”

  I skidded into the parking lot by the tennis courts again and jogged into the Hecht Athletic Center. Aaron Katz was in his office and his assistant sent me right in.

  “What are you doing to me, Miami?” said Aaron.

  “This is all bogus. Tell me what happened?”

  “The kid is off on a tour with some students, and this guy turns up at my office wanting to know where Markus is, and claiming to be his representative.”

  “Who was it? What was his name?”

  “Desmond Richmond,” he said.

  The look on my face must have betrayed me because Aaron shook his head.

  “You know him, don’t you?” He wasn’t happy. “What have you got me into, Miami?”

  I took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. The same technique I had used throughout my baseball career, on the mound, before every pitch. I felt instantly calmer. I hadn’t expected Richmond to turn up at all, let alone this quickly, but I had taken steps. I just hoped they were enough.

  “Look, Aaron, this guy is not who he claims to be. He’s trying to use these young athletes for his own purposes, positioning himself for some kind of play as a sports administrator.”

  “Miami, I hear you. But I don’t care. I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to care. I’ve got hundreds of student-athletes here with us right now, who will all be adversely affected by the NCAA getting any whiff of wrongdoing. And the word agent is a big red flag. You know that.”

  “Aaron, this guy is not an agent. There is no written agreement between Markus Swan and this guy.”

  “You know as well as I do, an agreement doesn’t have to be written. Any implication that he is acting on the kid’s behalf can be considered agency. And this guy says he handled a deal with Nike to supply Markus with equipment. That’s an agent, and that’s unacceptable. I don’t make the rules, but I sure have to follow them.”

  “He said that? He said he did a deal with Nike?”

  “He did.”

  I thought about the new shoes Richmond had brought to Montego Bay with him. They were certainly Nikes, but he never said how he acquired them. A deal with a big company like Nike seemed to be the sort of thing he would have wanted everyone in Jamaica to know about. But right now I needed time to find out, to put Richmond back in his hole and to keep Markus on campus.

  “Aaron, you saw the kid’s shoes this morning. They were as old as Methuselah. Do you think if this guy had a Nike contract his athlete would be running for a scholarship in those old things?”

  I saw Aaron’s face soften a bit. “I have people looking for Markus now. I’m going to ask you to take him off the campus as soon as we find him.”

  “Come on, Aaron. Give him a chance. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s just trying to run his way out of poverty. You know how that is. Lots of student-athletes here battle that, in football, baseball, all sports. And lots of them have to contend with people trying to ride their coattails. That’s what this clown is trying to do.”

  Aaron looked at me and sighed but didn’t speak.

  “Just give me until tomorrow. Let Markus run. You’re still not on the hook for anything. If you’re not happy tomorrow, then fine, it’s over, no hard feelings.”

  “What if this guy Richmond can prove a commercial relationship with Markus? All he needs is to show he gave any of this Nike stuff to the kid, and it’s done.”


  “He can’t prove what isn’t true,” I said, although I wasn’t sure yet that he couldn’t. “And this Nike deal doesn’t smell right. You know folks at Nike. Why don’t you call them?”

  He nodded. “Okay, I will. But that might not work out for you. Or Markus. He’s got running shorts, a track top. All Nike.”

  “What if I can show that all that stuff was supplied by his association, for running competitions?”

  “That would be acceptable. Is that the case?”

  I looked at Aaron. I wanted to tell him it was. But I really didn’t know.

  “Richmond’s not his agent. You give Markus until tomorrow, and I’ll make sure you have enough proof to satisfy anyone.”

  He sat down in his chair and let out a long breath. “Alright. Until tomorrow. But I will be calling the people at Nike.”

  “Good,” I said. I hoped it was true.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I DROVE STRAIGHT to Lauderhill. I had no idea where Richmond bunkered down, but I had no doubt it would be somewhere near Lauderhill, and I also had no doubt he would be a known commodity in that community. As I drove I thought over what Aaron Katz had told me. I was fairly confident Richmond would find it hard to prove he was Markus’s agent, but I wasn’t quite so sure how I would be able to prove that he wasn’t. What I needed was for Richmond to prove that point for me.

  I stopped at a liquor and cigar store in a strip mall just off the turnpike, where I bought a bottle of water and a Powerball ticket, and asked the old guy behind the counter where I could find Desmond Richmond. He frowned like I asked if he knew Johnny Depp, so I slipped an extra twenty into his palm when he handed me the lottery ticket, and his memory came good. He directed me up Route 7 to a rundown mall area known as the Sixteenth Street Shopping Center. This was no Westfield. It was like two low-rent strip malls had decided to mate. Strips of buildings with the design and charm of concrete shoe boxes, with stores for furniture and industrial uniforms and adult videos. The most common signage was For Lease, and the further I got into the area, the more boarded up the stores were.

  I drove around in a circuit until I found the establishment I wanted. A printing shop, specializing in t-shirts, mugs and Bob Marley posters done like Andy Warhol. It was in a strip of sickly green shops, one long building of about five storefronts, but only one appeared to be open for business. The rest were shuttered as if preparing in advance for the next hurricane. I parked in a lot that was plenty of acres but not many cars, and wandered over to the store. A little bell dinged as I walked in. Sometimes the old-style security is the best. A dark man in a yellow t-shirt with the eyes and smile of a happy face printed on it looked up from a newspaper. He didn’t speak and he didn’t smile. But he didn’t frown either, so I took that as a good sign.

  “Looking for Mr. Richmond,” I said.

  Now he frowned. “Not shah I know dot name,” he said, like he’d just gotten off the boat from Jamaica.

  “Yeah, you do. He used to be one of those guys who wore rubber suits and shot down ski runs like it was actually a sport, as opposed to gravity.”

  “I think you mean bobsled,” said the familiar voice standing in the doorway that led to a room behind the store.

  “Mr. Richmond,” I said.

  “Did you compete at the Olympics?”

  “No, I played real sport,” I said, looking at a t-shirt with a photo of a wedding couple on it. I only had two questions about it. Who, and why?

  “Ah, yes, baseball. A poor man’s cricket.”

  “Yeah, I know Derek Jeter sure hurts for a penny.”

  Richmond stepped into the store but stayed behind the counter. I didn’t feel good about that all of a sudden. A lot of deadly weapons get pulled from behind counters in strip malls like this one.

  “Why did you steal my boy away?” He placed his fingers on the counter, splayed like a cage.

  “Your boy? I didn’t know you had kids.”

  “Oh, I have many kids. All of them run for me.”

  “Not all of them. Not anymore.”

  He grinned. He had a hard face, like life had been rough, but it had a roguish charm to it. “Do you really think you can steal my boy and I would do nothing?”

  “First of all, he’s Mrs. Swan’s boy, not yours. Second, I didn’t steal him. He came of his own volition and with his mother’s permission. And third, whether he stays or goes isn’t up to me. It’s up to him.”

  Richmond shook his head. “You are right, it is not up to you. But you’re wrong, it is not up to him.”

  “What is your problem with Markus going to college anyway? You don’t want him to get an education?”

  “He don’t need an education. He needs to run. And he needs to run for me.”

  “He can run at college.”

  “You really aren’t that naive, are you, Mr. Jones? I know how it works here. If he is at college, he cannot run professionally. He cannot run for prize money. And if he cannot run for prize money, what good is he?”

  “He’s no good to you. So why not let him go?”

  Richmond turned and ran his hand across a collection of t-shirts hanging on the wall behind him. He stopped at one grotesque item that read, Jamaica? No, she wanted to! He grinned and spoke.

  “If you let one sheep out of the yard, the other sheep start getting ideas,” he said. “If Markus doesn’t run for me, he doesn’t run.”

  “You’re crazy. You think the school is going to believe you’re his agent? You don’t have a contract.”

  “Mr. Jones, I have been around this merry-go-round once or twice. I know I don’t have a written contract. I don’t have one, because right now, I don’t want one. I don’t want some loser who couldn’t make it trying to leech off me because he thinks we have a legal agreement.” He turned from the t-shirts and looked at me. “I negotiate for merchandise like shoes with major advertisers like Nike. I supply those shoes to my athletes. By NCAA rules, that makes me a manager. So I sign them up without ever putting a pen in their hands. They go pro, or they go home.”

  “Markus doesn’t have your shoes. He didn’t bring them. So you supplied nothing.”

  Richmond gave a deep ha. “You don’t even believe that makes any difference yourself.” He looked out the window at the graying sky, matching the cracked asphalt in the parking lot. The guy in the happy face kept reading the paper as if he didn’t speak our language.

  “I don’t care what Markus is doing at the university, Mr. Jones. But I know he isn’t studying there. And if you are truly concerned for him, you will deliver him to the airport tomorrow so he can go home and resume his training.” He stared me in the eye. “Before he gets himself hurt.”

  Richmond stood upright and rolled his neck around like he was stretching, and then he turned slowly and walked through the door to the back room without a word. I watched the doorway for a moment, expecting something to happen, maybe a gunshot, or confetti. But nothing happened, so I turned to the dark guy in the smiley face t-shirt who had finally looked up from his paper, and was watching me like a zoologist watches a turtle: a mix of professional interest and inherent boredom. I looked at his t-shirt once more, and I smiled.

  “Have a nice day,” I said, and I walked out.

  Chapter Thirty

  THE DAYS WERE getting longer but daylight savings was yet to kick in, so the light was fading by the time I reached West Palm. My interaction with Richmond hadn’t completely shaken me, but it had sapped my confidence some. And the perfect antidote to a lack of confidence is a few hours with good company. I pulled the Boxster into the lot behind Longboard Kelly’s and wandered into the courtyard. The party lights had come on, their colors playing off the tables and the beer taps, giving the place a festive feel. Some of the regulars were in. Quitting time was not quite upon us, but it was also a flexible notion in South Florida. I headed to my stool under the palapa and Muriel had a beer waiting for me by the time I got there.

  “Nickel for your thoughts,” she sai
d.

  “Cost of living’s high, and goin’ up,” I sang back.

  “You are in a mood.”

  I took a long pull on my beer and wiped foam from my mouth. “I am. I’ve got a big day tomorrow, so don’t let me get too out of control, will you?”

  “You asking a bartender to not sell you beer?”

  “At a point.”

  “You got it, sweetie.” She thrust her tank-top-clad bosom at me and turned away to a customer in the indoor bar. I took out my phone and punched in a text message and sent it to Ron. It was just one word, like a code or Batman’s spotlight in the sky, summoning him to the scene. Longboards. Ron appeared seven minutes later. Muriel had a beer ready for him too. She was good like that.

  “How’s business?” I asked.

  “All good. Closed my case with the Brazilian woman, and she wired the money this afternoon. She seemed happy with the results.”

  “Was that her husband’s money?”

  “Only half of it, now. How about you? How did your kid like the campus?”

  I shrugged. “Fine, I guess. Who can tell what a teenage boy is thinking?”

  I told Ron my sorry tale, of how Desmond Richmond had turned up claiming to be Markus’s agent, and how, despite my best efforts, that could muddy the waters enough for UM to pass on him.

  “That would be too bad,” said Ron.

  I nodded, and drank my beer.

  “So, I’m no expert on these rules,” said Ron, “but you say a student-athlete can’t have someone represent them to an external organization or professional team in return for money or services.”

  “That pretty much sums it up.”

  “So who did Richmond represent Markus to?”

  “Nike, so he says.”

  “Nike? That’s pretty big cheese.”

  “It is. It really doesn’t get much bigger.”

  “But did that really happen?”

  It was a good question. Aaron Katz said he was going to call his contacts at Nike, and then we’d probably know. “My gut says no.”