by Carl Hiaasen
“I read about it.”
“Damn shame,” McRae said remorsefully. “Brought all kinds of heat.”
Donna flung her brown arms around McRae’s neck and gave him a long kiss. It was not long before they forgot about Christopher Meadows once more.
The architect stood quietly and edged toward the door. “Rennie, thanks for the warning,” he said.
The chubby lawyer pried Donna loose momentarily. “Anytime, buddy. I hope you know what to do: Cut yourself loose, fast.”
“I intend to,” Meadows replied.
“No more camping trips.”
He found a bathroom, then a fresh drink, and wandered out on the patio. A twenty-four-story shoe box over Brickell Avenue, Meadows thought sourly, designed by some fathead Swede. A $300,000 view. Across the water, the peach light of the sodium streetlamps glinted off the Seaquarium’s geodesic dome, home of Flipper, the porpoise. To the north was the skyline, shining over the boulevard. It did not look grand and wonderful, Meadows admitted. He searched the towers for the Coral Key Bank. Soon his thoughts returned to the cocaine.
“Hey, Chris.”
It was Jill.
“Are you pissed off at me or what?”
“No, of course not.”
“You went for a drink and never came back.”
Meadows smiled weakly. “Sorry. I got sidetracked with our host.”
“Oh. Well, there’s some guys looking for you.”
Meadows quickly strode back inside. He found Manny and Moe in a corner and between them a gangly, coarse man pointing a smelly cigar. Meadows sat down next to Moe, and Manny introduced Alonzo.
The two Cubans jabbered at each other in Spanish. Meadows picked up only pieces of the exchange but was reassured by what he heard. “He’s a good man,” Manny was saying. “He was with us last night, and he didn’t blow up.”
Alonzo answered in English: “You men had some problems, eh?”
“We got spooked, is all,” Moe said thickly.
“We got interrupted,” said Manny.
“It was my fault,” Moe continued. “I hit the horn ’cause I thought there was cops coming.”
Alonzo said nothing.
“He did the right thing,” Manny cut in. “There was another car. We couldn’t see anything.”
Alonzo tapped the cigar until a chunk of ash dropped into Rennie McRae’s extravagant carpet.
“Chris, you were along for the first time?” Alonzo asked.
Meadows’s tongue felt like sandpaper. “That’s right.”
“Ever done anything like that?”
“Not quite like that, no.” They all laughed, but the tension did not dissipate.
“I can find all the stuff, Al,” Manny volunteered after a brief silence. “Just give me a night or two.”
Alonzo shook his head, and Manny responded urgently in Spanish.
“No, not now. There is to be a meeting.” Alonzo switched to Spanish himself. “There will be no business for a few days. Everyone is to take some time off. The big man wants to put an end to the craziness.”
Moe nudged Meadows and made an exaggerated shrug; he didn’t understand a word. Meadows rolled his eyes, playing along, but strained to listen. He could tell Manny was angry.
“What good will a meeting do? Nothing will change. The Colombians are here, my friend. They want the business, they take the business. Mine, yours, the Diegos…we go to meetings while they go to the fucking bank.”
“Quiet now,” Alonzo said reproachfully. “How does a delivery boy become so wise?”
Manny was silent. Meadows felt his heart pounding.
“El Jefe is such a big shot,” Manny argued, “he will never know if you let me sneak out there and find the stuff.”
“And why wouldn’t he?” Alonzo said coldly. “He knows that it’s missing.”
Manny rose and stalked off.
“Forgive me,” Alonzo said in English. “A minor dispute. Moe?”
“Huh?”
“Sometimes your friend Manny has a very bad memory. He forgets who runs the show.”
“Yeah, I understand,” Moe said sullenly. “Al, I already said I’d take the blame.”
“Blame is no longer important. Just see that Manny follows my advice. No deals for a while. At least until after the meeting this weekend. There will be important arrangements, I’m sure.” Alonzo coughed a small cloud of blue smoke. “How well do you know Manny?” he asked Meadows.
“I just met him the other day.” Meadows knew that Moe was paying close attention. “He seems OK”
Some of the party guests were crowing along to a Jimmy Buffett tape. Alonzo raised his voice to be heard. “Manny loses his temper sometimes. He gets impulsive. Don’t get impulsive,” he said. “Stay cool, and there will be more work coming your way.”
Alonzo patted Meadows on the arm, and the architect smiled appreciatively. He made up his mind he would have nothing to do with any of them. The shadow game was over.
“What happens now?” Moe asked.
Alonzo shrugged. “They’ll get it all straightened out, I guess. Pargo con salsa verde, and they’ll split up the world over the cafecitos. Dios, nobody cooks snapper like Cumparsi.”
“Cumparsi?” Meadows asked.
“A restaurant, man. You have to be Cuban to know about it.” Alonzo moved his hand in circles over his belly. “No place like it in Little Havana.”
Meadows needed an excuse to go back down the hall, and it took a few minutes to find it: Jill, standing by the bar with a Saab salesman. Emboldened by the cocaine and the bourbon, Meadows put an arm around her waist and led her away. “My, aren’t we friendly all of a sudden?” she said.
Meadows approached McRae’s den and craned his neck around the half-open door. The room was empty. He could hear the lawyer’s voice clear from the living room, bellowing the chorus of “Changes in Latitude, Changes in Attitude.”
“Good,” Meadows murmured. “A little privacy.” He closed the door and twisted the lock. Jill stood with her arms at her side, looking up at him with a puzzled expression.
“I don’t understand you,” she said in a sultry whisper.
Meadows kissed her hand. “Take off your top. We haven’t got much time.”
They undressed hurriedly and made love on the carpet. Meadows moved mechanically, regretfully. His thoughts caromed from Mono to Terry to Octavio Nelson and, painfully, to Sandy Tilden. It was over in ten minutes, and he and Jill lay together briefly, damp and panting and covered with fuzz from the thick shag.
“That was nice,” she said, too politely. “I’ve gotta get to a bathroom.”
By the time Meadows could pull his trousers on Jill had already slipped out the door. Still shirtless, he hurried to Rennie McRae’s desk. He found the cocaine in the same place, the top drawer on the left side. His hand already was on the plastic bag when he spotted the gun, hidden in the back of the drawer. Meadows recoiled as if it were a diamondback.
Meadows considered pocketing the chrome pistol but decided against it. The gun probably could be traced.
He lifted the bag of cocaine, twisted it shut and deftly tied off a half hitch in the neck. It was now a compact satchel roughly the size of a softball. Meadows was sure it was heavy enough to break glass if he threw it hard.
Meadows pawed through some drapes directly behind McRae’s desk to a glass door that opened onto a small balcony. He unlocked the door and carried the coke outside into the humid night air. Peering over the railing, he gauged a target area. Seventeen stories below, he could make out an ixora hedge and, beyond that, a small tract of sodded land. There was a palm tree near a bench, which faced Biscayne Bay.
If the bag landed too far from the building, anyone walking along the waterfront might notice it. Meadows decided that it was the hedge or nothing. If he missed, a quick exit from McRae’s party would be imperative so he could grab the dope before someone else did.
He scouted for pedestrians and saw no one. The only sounds were traffic from the boule
vard and muffled music from the condominium. Meadows leaned over the railing and dropped the plastic bag of cocaine on a straight line with the ixora bushes. He heard them rustle when the bag landed, but he couldn’t see it.
Meadows turned and took one step toward the glass door before he was paralyzed by the sight of a silhouette through the curtains. The figure was moving around the desk, making no effort at stealth. Meadows heard a man’s voice, and his pulse hammered in his temples. It was McRae, looking for another fix.
The lawyer sagged into the chair at his desk and began foraging through the drawers. Through a crack in the drapes, Meadows had a clear view of the back of McRae’s head, the ruddy bald spot at the crown. He could also see his own shirt, shoes and socks crumpled in the corner, and he prayed that McRae didn’t.
“Goddammit!” the lawyer grunted.
Meadows held his breath. McRae fumbled through the top left drawer. He set the chrome-plated pistol on the desk with a crack. He was furious.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” McRae roared, lurching to his feet. Any second now he was going to see the clothes, and then he was going to search the room.… Meadows’s nerves were strung tight as piano wire. His eyes swept the desktop and fixed on a paperweight, a large glass apple.
He slipped through the curtains and padded silently up to McRae, who was still facing the door. With his right hand, Meadows seized the back of the lawyer’s moist neck and shoved him forward. The fat man’s legs cracked against the desk, and he spilled face down, whimpering in confusion.
Meadows was rooted behind him, mashing McRae’s face into the wood. The architect’s left hand swiftly swept the pistol onto the carpet, then found the glass apple.
“What the fuck is going on?” McRae spluttered, wrenching his head to try to see his assailant.
But Meadows held on desperately. Clumsily he brought the glass apple crashing into the side of the lawyer’s head. It was not a particularly forceful blow, and Meadows knew it. He was not left-handed.
McRae’s hand grabbed at his arm, and frantically Meadows smashed McRae again. This time the paperweight exploded on impact. Meadows lost his grip, and McRae rolled off the desk and fell on the carpet, moaning. His eyes were closed, and his scalp was bleeding.
Miraculously Meadows’s hand was not cut. He walked to the door and locked it.
McRae lay gurgling like a baby. With no small effort Meadows rolled him onto his belly. He tied a handkerchief around the lawyer’s head as a blindfold.
Meadows hastily examined the injuries and decided McRae would live. His hair was gooey with blood, but all the lacerations seemed superficial. His breathing was deep, loud and almost regular.
Meadows dressed as fast as he could, his hands quaking so badly that he could hardly button his shirt. He checked McRae one more time. The battered lawyer seemed to be snoring. Meadows found the light switch and darkened the study before closing the door behind him.
He passed Jill in the living room and squeezed her waist. She was hitting on the car salesman again.
Moe was passed out under a glass coffee table. Meadows shook him by the shoulder, but it was no use. He looked around for Manny and found him on the sofa with Alonzo.
“I’m gonna take off,” he said.
“I’m about ready myself,” Manny said. “All the coke is gone, anyway. I’ll walk down with you.”
“That’s OK; you go ahead and talk with Alonzo,” Meadows said.
Alonzo got up. “We’re finished anyway,” he said. “Chris, it was nice meeting you.”
“Same here.”
“I’ll get Moe,” Manny said.
“OK, see you downstairs,” Meadows said, heading for the door.
The building was designed with an elevator at the end of each hall. As loaded as they were, Manny and Moe surely would choose the one closest to McRae’s condo. Meadows reasoned that if he could get there first and grab the elevator alone, it would give him a three- or four-minute lead time to find the cocaine and stash it. He would have a bigger margin if Manny wound up carrying Moe.
The elevator was on the tenth floor when Meadows pushed the button. He listened nervously for the sound of the door at McRae’s apartment. When the elevator came, he strode in and mashed the Close button repeatedly.
When the door opened downstairs, Meadows dashed through the lobby into the parking lot. Stealthily he circled the building to the waterfront. He scanned the face of the co-op until he found the seventeenth-floor lights of McRae’s condo. He searched the balcony for shadows and saw nothing. The den was still dark.
Meadows trotted to the ixora hedge and began to search, concentrating on an imaginary zone directly beneath McRae’s balcony. He worked by the faint yellow light of the distant skyline. It was enough.
The bag of cocaine lay unbroken in a tangle of roots and leaves. Meadows retrieved it, checking it for leaks. Carrying it close to his body, belt level, he walked with deliberate nonchalance toward the parking lot.
One glance upstairs, and his pace quickened. The lights in Rennie McRae’s study came on.
Meadows turned the corner of the building and sprinted for his car.
Chapter 23
OCTAVIO NELSON WRAPPED a pillow around his head like a helmet.
“Octavio, wake up, llamos,” his wife implored.
“Ten minutes,” Nelson grunted.
“Now. Your brother’s on the phone. I think you better talk to him.”
Nelson staggered to the kitchen for coffee. Roberto could wait a few goddamn minutes. What was he doing calling up at nine o’clock on my day off? What was he doing calling up at all? That one Nelson knew.
Roberto didn’t bother with hello. “Octavio, they put a bullet in my car.”
“What a shame. Your fancy sedan?”
“Jesus, listen to me. I walked outside this morning, and there’s a hole as big as a bowling ball in the door on the driver’s side. I can put my fist through it. They must have used a cannon. Right in front of my house, Octavio!”
“You want me to make a report?”
“No, hermano.” Roberto was whimpering now. “I want your help. They think I stole some stuff.”
“Stuff?” Nelson seemed amused. “You mean cocaine?”
“At a party. Some lawyer had a pound or so stashed in his desk, and somebody ripped it off. They think I did it.”
“Did you?”
“No! Christ, I’m not stupid, Octavio. I know these guys. I see them every day. I’m not about to fuck ’em out of their dope. I know what happens to people who do.”
“Obviously they don’t trust you, Roberto.” The coffee burned in Nelson’s stomach.
“I was in the room for about two minutes. With a chick. That was it.”
“Sounds like a storybook romance,” Nelson said.
“God, Octavio, I’m not jerking you around. These guys mean to kill me. You should see the car.”
Nelson felt very tired. He almost hung up. “What do you want from me?”
“I’ve got to go out of town for a couple of days. I need a ride to the airport.”
“Call a cab.”
“They’re probably watching the house. A taxi is no good. A taxi won’t discourage them.”
“Oh, but a police escort will? I see.” Octavio Nelson was boiling. “Where are you?”
“At the house.”
“Alone?”
“Almost,” Roberto Nelson answered.
“Send her home. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah. Don’t go anywhere,” Octavio Nelson ordered. Then he hung up and drained the last of the harsh, hot coffee.
A FILE WAS NO good unless it was neat.
That was one of Wilbur Pincus’s convictions about organized police work, and that was why he always typed his notes. In a cardboard box in a suit closet of his apartment, there were forty or so spiral notebooks. All of Pincus’s initial casework, long since reduced to typed memorandums.
Ex
cept for one. It was a blue notebook with the numbers 10-17-80 and the letters WP on the cover. Only half the pages were full, but the notes inside pertained to only one case.
Pincus knew the facts by heart; if it had ever gotten to court, he would have needed absolutely no coaching from the state attorney. Of course, it never did get to court, never would.…
There was a deal involving about ten pounds of cocaine. It was about to go down in a parking lot outside a suburban mall, fifteen minutes from Miami. Octavio Nelson got the tip from one of his “phone freaks” and decided on a lark to check it out. It was a long shot, so he didn’t ask for a backup.
Pincus and Nelson waited ninety minutes, changing parking spots every now and then, circling the lot in Nelson’s Dodge. A burgundy van arrived, and one man got out. He walked to another car, a blue Chevrolet Malibu, and used a key out of his pocket to open the trunk. He lifted an Adidas athletic bag, dark blue, closed the trunk and toted it back to the van.
“Let’s go,” Octavio Nelson said calmly, opening the door. The detectives briskly crossed the parking lot and approached the van.
“Buenos días,” Nelson greeted the driver.
“Buenos días.”
Nelson flashed his badge. “I want to talk to you.”
“Sure,” the driver said. He was only nineteen or twenty. He wore a cranberry Dior tennis shirt and a pair of blue jeans. His sideburns were cut very high, and the modest shadow of a new mustache darkened his upper lip.
“Can I see a driver’s license?” Nelson asked.
“I’m sorry, man. Don’t have it with me.” The kid shrugged and gave a forced laugh.
“I’m sorry, too,” Nelson said. “What is your name?”
“Aristidio Cruz.”
“Wilbur, start checking around the stores. Find out who owns the blue Malibu,” Nelson said. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Cruz some more.”
Pincus thought it would make more sense just to sit on the Malibu and wait for the owner, but he didn’t say so. He pulled out his notebook and went into the shopping mall.
He wrote:
Interviewed D. Petri, W/M, DOB 4-3-50. Owns Danny’s Pizza Shack. Says he doesn’t know anything about Chevrolet in parking lot.
