Powder Burn

by Carl Hiaasen

  “No,” Meadows said. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected them. Bermúdez isn’t that stupid.”

  “That’s OK,” Arthur said. “From your descriptions, I think I’ll know the motherfuckers as soon as I lay eyes on them.”

  Meadows glanced over at Arthur and smiled for the first time in a while. “They’re hard to miss,” he said, “but then so are you.”

  After crossing the Venetian Causeway to the mainland, Meadows headed south on the interstate toward Coconut Grove. “I meant to thank you for looking after the house.”

  Arthur shrugged. “I cleaned up what I could, drained the pool…shit, it was a mess. Never seen anything like that.”

  Meadows’s jaw tightened. Arthur gazed out the windows as they whipped by Miami’s abbreviated skyline. A few stubborn out-of-season buzzards circled the spire of the old downtown courthouse, lighting occasionally on a ledge over the jail.

  “Chris, there are other ways to do it.” Arthur gave his friend a hard look. This would be the last time to mention it.

  “I want to do it this way,” Meadows said.

  “People die every day, man. Car accidents, suicides. People get drunk and drown.”

  Meadows shook his head. “No.”

  Arthur slapped Meadows on the knee. “OK. Your way.”

  Meadows guided the car down an exit ramp and decided to take the scenic route, shady Bayshore Drive. He thought fleetingly of driving by the house, just for a look, but discarded the idea. There was no time.

  Soon the joggers and trendy cyclists outnumbered the automobiles. Purposely he slowed his speed and lowered the window. The breeze off the bay was a marvelous tonic; a bright fleet of bare-masted Sunfish rocked at anchor off Dinner Key.

  “Why don’t you let me off here?” Arthur said.

  “I can give you a lift up to Grand Avenue.”

  “Naw, I’d just as soon walk. Do a little socializing.”

  Arthur squeezed out of the car at the next intersection. He lumbered around to the driver’s side, heedless of traffic, and leaned over at Meadows’s window. For a moment Meadows thought the big man was going to say one thing, but he said another.

  “Well, it’s going to be interesting.”

  “Yes.”

  A sports car behind the Thunderbird honked. Arthur bent over and slapped his ass in defiance. “Every fucking body is in a hurry,” he said. “Me too. I gotta go shopping. Chris, be seeing you.”

  “Tomorrow night,” Meadows said, touching the accelerator.

  DONNA BERMÚDEZ HAD lots of shopping to do after the luncheon. The pool demanded new patio furniture, something that would not crack in the summer sun.

  “Fine,” José Bermúdez said. “You drop me off at the bank and go over to Mayfair for a few hours.”

  “Can’t you take the afternoon off?” She flipped down the sun visor on the passenger side of the Seville and primped in the small mirror.

  “No, I’m sorry. I’ve got calls to make.” He turned the temperature control as low as it would go. The collar of his shirt was wet enough to wring by hand.

  “It was a grand speech,” Donna said proudly. “The mayor thinks you’re really something.”

  “Our mayor is an idiota.”

  “José!”

  Bermúdez reached across the car and let his hand wander up his wife’s dress.

  “How much can I spend today?”

  “Not too much,” he said, “but buy something nice.”

  She smiled and said nothing when his hand reached her panties.

  “Don’t forget the cocktail party tomorrow night. At Rubén’s.”

  “I won’t be able to make it,” Bermúdez said, withdrawing. A county bus was stalled on the causeway in front of them; he could only guess how much the good people in the back row had seen.

  “Why not? I was looking forward to it.”

  Bermúdez took a deep breath and feigned disappointment. “A customer is arriving from South America, and I must meet with him. He has a huge account with the bank, millions.”

  “How about afterward?”

  “Donna, I’m afraid it will be another late evening. I’m sorry.”

  “So you’ll miss dinner again,” she said disapprovingly.

  “Yes. The old fool insists on a restaurant in Little Havana. The food is wretched—they make the fish taste like tacos—but there is a waitress of his liking.”

  “Jesus,” Donna Bermúdez hissed. “For that you miss a big party.”

  “Darling, have a little sympathy,” José Bermúdez said through his teeth. “For me, the entire evening will be a terrible bore.”

  Chapter 27

  AVIANCA FLIGHT 6 from Bogotá and Medellín, scheduled to touch down at Miami International at four-thirty in the afternoon, was delayed an hour by bad weather. This was a matter of small consequence to Roberto Nelson; no one was meeting him at the airport. An hour one way or another was unimportant.

  The airliner was dodging a small thunder cell over western Jamaica when Roberto finally persuaded the striking dark stewardess to scribble her name and phone number on a cocktail napkin.

  “You are based out of Bogotá, no?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I travel there often,” Roberto said.

  “Oh? You are a businessman then?”

  Roberto’s teeth gleamed. “That’s correct.” He congratulated himself for splurging; it always paid to fly first class. The flight attendants in the coach section always seemed brusque, too busy to socialize.

  “Will you be in Miami tonight?” he asked, wondering silently if Suzanne was home yet.

  “No. It’s a turnaround, I’m afraid. We go back to Colombia in two hours,” she said with practiced disappointment. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat or drink? You’re the only passenger on the aircraft who didn’t want supper.”

  Roberto patted his midsection. “Thanks anyway,” he said, “but I feel a little queasy. I better wait till I get my feet back on solid ground.” The flight attendant nodded sympathetically and glided down the aisle.

  Queasy! Who wouldn’t be? Roberto thought to himself. This was a survival mission, nothing less. That hijo de puta McRae and his fucking cocaine. Call me a thief!

  Roberto seethed whenever he replayed the confrontation.

  “I didn’t rip you off, Rennie. I am not foolish.”

  “Two dumb lies,” McRae had replied, his face swollen and beet-blotched. “There’s no point in arguing. You’ve got a week to redeem yourself.”

  “But I didn’t take it!”

  McRae had waved him off with one hand. “You replace the stuff, and I forget about the inconvenience and the bump on my head. Now get out of my office before I kill you.”

  “You go fuck yourself,” Roberto had said.

  Then they’d blasted his Mercedes, and that was all the encouragement he’d needed. Foolish is what he would have been if he had ignored that kind of warning.

  “I brought you something.” It was Illeana, the stewardess. She held out a small plastic tray with a glass of water and a package of Alka-Seltzer tablets.

  “You’re very sweet, but I think I’ll be OK when we land,” Roberto said.

  “We’ve got Dramamine, too.”

  “No, thanks,” Roberto said, touching her hand.

  He was dying for a double scotch, but that would have been stupid. His stomach actually was beginning to churn.

  U.S. CUSTOMS Inspector W. K. Junior Hillings walked up to the athletic-looking blond man and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The man folded the sports section of the Miami Journal and tucked it under one arm.

  “Yes?”

  “It just landed.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Hillings led Wilbur Pincus to an office overlooking the congested customs inspection lobby in the bottom level of Miami International. The first arrivals off Avianca 6 were queuing up behind some flight attendants from BOAC out of London.

  From where Pincus sat, he h
ad a clear view of each line. He noticed everyone whose luggage was marked with the orange and white flight tags of Avianca.

  Roberto Nelson slung his suit bag across his back. He no longer cared about wrinkled clothes; his business was finished. The line before him moved slowly. His watch read 5:45. His stomach roiled.

  Sourly Roberto thought how unpleasant the next few days were going to be. Afterward, he would eat a whole pig.

  “Excuse me, sir.” A man in a government uniform with a small silver badge touched Roberto’s arm. “Could you come with me, please?”

  “Sure,” Roberto Nelson said amiably, “but I really don’t want to lose my place in line.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Junior Hillings said.

  Roberto followed him to a small stale room where two other inspectors waited impassively. Hillings closed the door. “We’re going to search your luggage,” he said.

  “Can I ask why?”

  “Just routine,” said one of the other officers, a huge red-haired man who was built like a refrigerator. He took the suit bag from Roberto Nelson and laid it on a table. Roberto shrugged and sat down in a chair.

  “Please,” Hillings said, “you’re going to have to stand up for a body search.”

  Roberto scowled. He rose and, facing the wall, spread his legs, leaned forward and braced his hands high over his head. “I believe this is the proper position,” he said snidely over his shoulder.

  “Oh, that’s fine,” Hillings said politely, “but let’s try it with your clothes off. Please.”

  “No!” Roberto wheeled, reddening. The third inspector, a lean black man with biceps like bread loaves, took a step forward and squared his weight like a boxer.

  “Mr. Nelson, if you don’t cooperate, there will be a lot of trouble and paperwork for everybody.” Hillings sighed.

  “I’m an American citizen!”

  “Naturalized American citizen,” Hillings corrected, waving Roberto’s passport. “It doesn’t matter. By law we could do a body search on Nancy Reagan if we wanted.”

  “Take off your clothes,” said the red-haired man.

  “I want a lawyer.”

  Hillings shrugged. “You’re wasting your time. We can keep you tied up for days.”

  Roberto quavered; that would be a disaster.

  “OK,” he said after several moments. His stubby, thick fingers fumbled at the buttons of his white silk shirt. “But make it quick if you can. It’s Saturday night, and I got to meet some people. You understand, don’t you?”

  Seconds later Roberto’s shirt, socks, Brittania jeans, snakeskin belt and Dingo boots were on the table. A gold digital watch, a heavy bracelet with the initials RN and three rings—one set with an emerald—were placed in a bag and sealed. The black customs inspector was examining Roberto’s neck chain with its fourteen-carat pendant, a solid gold razor blade. He held it up and dangled it for Hillings to see.

  Roberto was naked, spread-eagled again. His jaw set and he fought to keep his eyes from watering. He could feel the warm breath of the red-haired customs man on his back. It made his body hair prickle and stand up.

  The inspector checked behind Roberto’s ears, then inside them. He felt Roberto’s armpits, wiping his hands afterward on a paper towel.

  “Take one step back, please,” he directed. “Now bend over.”

  Roberto whimpered, and the bitter thought of his brother seized his mind. For this he would never forgive Octavio.

  The red-haired customs man spread Roberto’s buttocks and examined his rectum. Bent over like a football player at scrimmage, Roberto felt dizzy. The customs man seemed to be taking his time.

  “I don’t feel very good,” Roberto said.

  “We’re almost done,” Hillings told him.

  Roberto cringed and felt himself shrink when the inspector touched his scrotum to lift his testicles.

  “Jesus,” he cried. “Be careful.”

  “That’s all,” Hillings said. “You can get dressed now and take a seat.”

  Roberto’s suit bag was open on the table. He dressed hastily, stepping into his jeans so clumsily that he almost ripped the seat out. He felt hot; his mustache was damp and salty.

  The black inspector was studying a wide florid necktie. He laid it flat on the table and ran his hands across, smoothing the fabric.

  “I think we ought to open this up,” he said. He handed the tie to Hillings, who examined it and shook his head.

  “No, it’s OK Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Did you check the boots?”

  “The heels are OK,” the black inspector reported.

  “Mr. Nelson, are you declaring anything upon reentry into the United States?”

  “You’ve got the form I filled out on the plane, so you know the answer,” Roberto said.

  “Did you buy this tie in Colombia?”

  “Hell, no, I got it at J. C. Penney’s in Miami Beach. Sorry if you’re not crazy about the style.”

  “Excuse me,” Hillings said, walking out of the room.

  Pincus was pacing in an office down the hall. It was so stuffy that he had taken the unusual liberty of loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.

  Hillings walked in and said, “Nelson’s clean.”

  Pincus sagged against a desk, knocking over somebody’s framed picture of the wife and kids. “Did you check…”

  “We checked everywhere, Wil. His mouth, his ears, his asshole.”

  “His hair. Did you check his hair?”

  “Christ,” Hillings said. “How much could you carry on your scalp? Come on, man, I know the difference between dandruff and cocaine. This is my job, remember? I do this five goddamn days a week. The man is clean. We gotta let him go or all of us are going to court.”

  “Shit,” Pincus said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  Through the window he spotted Roberto Nelson, huffing across the lobby with his suit bag.

  “I better go,” Pincus said, rising. “Junior, thanks for the favor. I swear I thought he was muling.”

  “It’s OK, Wil,” Hillings said. “Who is this guy, anyway—some dirt-bag or a big shot?”

  “A little of both.”

  Pincus saw Roberto clear the double doors of the Customs exit, and he followed, striding quickly. Automatically the doors closed. Seconds later Pincus walked through them into the steaming underground transportation plaza. Roberto Nelson was not in sight.

  The curb was packed with people, yammering at porters in a variety of languages. Taxis careered heedlessly through the throngs; buses groaned and farted as they lurched through the insane traffic. The atmosphere was thick with carbon monoxide and sweat.

  The taxi lines were long; Pincus guessed that Roberto was hunting for the shortest one. The detective quick-stepped through the crowds, watching for a porcine profile with a brown suit bag over the shoulder.

  After five minutes he decided it was hopeless and gave up. Roberto Nelson most likely was going home anyway. Pincus knew where to find him.

  But what if somebody were meeting him? That, Pincus brooded, would be most significant. Especially if the somebody was his brother, Octavio. If that was the case, Roberto probably was already long gone.

  Pincus headed toward his car, parked in the short-term lot across from the customs waiting area. He had deftly negotiated two treacherous lines of outbound airport traffic when he heard the screams of a young woman.

  Pincus broke into a sprint. The cries bounced off the concrete. Probably a goddamn purse job, the detective thought. He fumbled in his jacket for his City of Miami badge and ID. He hoped it would be sufficient to prevent the airport security people from shooting at him while he ran.

  A crescendo of automobile horns told Pincus the trouble was no more than fifty yards away. A logjam of baggage-toting travelers clogged one of the taxi stands, forming a disorderly circle. Pincus decided to leave his pistol in the shoulder holster; you never knew when some itchy-fingered nut would try to use it on you.
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  Panting, he threaded his way through the crowd. “Police officer, excuse me…police officer, please let me through…police officer…”

  “Get an ambulance!” A woman shouted. “Somebody’s been hit by a cab.”

  Pincus broke through. He flashed his badge at an airport security man, who eagerly deferred, pointing at a figure prone on the pavement near a black and orange taxi.

  Pincus wordlessly knelt next to Roberto Nelson and felt the chubby neck for a pulse. He found one, but it was weak. Pincus rolled him over on his back.

  Roberto saw the end of the world through half-open eyes; the lids fluttered erratically, almost comically. His mouth frothed, and his neatly clipped mustache was flecked with drool. His cheeks were hot.

  “Mister, I did not do.” It was the cabdriver, a lanky Haitian with tears in his eyes. “I promise, I did not do. The man, he fell down in front of my taxi car.”

  Pincus raised a hand and nodded. “Can we get a doctor here? Somebody!” No one in the crowd volunteered, and the airport security guard ran off for help.

  Pincus leaned over and spoke crisply into Roberto Nelson’s right ear. “Roberto, can you hear me? I’m a policeman. Can you hear me?”

  Roberto’s jaw moved up and down. Only a gurgle came out. His body became stiff, and he began to writhe sideways on the pavement, his flesh grating over the dirt and small rocks. Pincus stretched himself across and lowered the full measure of his weight, but Roberto continued to thrash beneath him.

  “It’s epilepsy,” somebody in the crowd said.

  Pincus pinioned Roberto’s arms to his side and held on with all his strength. Then the man became still. The raspy breathing stopped, and Roberto’s eyes rolled back in his head like stained eggs.

  A woman in the crowd whispered, “My God.”

  Wilbur Pincus had seen enough to know it was futile, but he pounded and pounded on Roberto Nelson’s chest until the ambulance came and the paramedics told him what a good try it had been.

  Chapter 28

  HIS NAME was Victor, and he was a man of opulent appetites and impeccable taste. Some said he was Basque. Others thought he was Greek. How he had come to Miami, no one could say, but it clearly was not his first port of call. Among his languages, Victor counted English, Greek, French, Cantonese and a Spanish of indeterminate origin. Argentine, perhaps.