Powder Burn

by Carl Hiaasen

  Victor was apoplectic. Help. He had to get help. They were ruining him. Dazed, his eyes swollen with tears, Victor directed his great bulk toward the telephone by the door. He collided instead with the fish tank and carried it down to the soft beige carpet under him. For Meadows, the pratfall was a bonus.

  He affected not to hear the madness that consumed La Cumparsita. He spoke with a tough edge.

  “Look, Ignacio. I don’t know what’s going on here, but you wanted a delivery, and here it is. Now I expect you to transfer my fee into the appropriate account on Monday morning, first thing, as usual. Then we’ll talk about a next time, if there is one. I’m beginning not to like this restaurant.”

  Meadows slung the briefcase on the table and rose to leave.

  It was the best-quality leather case money could buy, identical to the one Bermúdez carried so smartly to work each morning—even the tasteful JLB monogrammed under the handle was the same. Arthur had found it at an imported leather shop in the Southland Mall.

  The banker and the old Colombian stared dumbly at the briefcase. Meadows pushed it closer, knocking over a carafe of wine, closer still, until it stopped solidly against the chest of José Bermúdz, who grabbed it furiously with both hands just as Octavio Nelson walked up to the table.

  “Buenos noches, señores,” Nelson said softly.

  Chapter 30

  TERRY DROVE. Arthur sat next to her, chortling. In the back seat, Meadows exchanged the loud T-shirt for a blue cotton pullover.

  “Don’t forget to stop at the phone booth,” Meadows said.

  “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough damage already?” Terry asked with a grin. She would prize the image of the fat man going ass over teakettle with his fish tank for as long as she lived.

  “It’s a good cake, but it needs a little icing.”

  Meadows had the quarter ready, and he dialed the number from heart.

  “Journal city desk.”

  “Clara Jackson, please.”

  “Hold on for a transfer.” There were three clicks, and then the voice of Clara Jackson.

  “Clara? This is a friend down at Metro. Nelson in Narcotics just raided a restaurant called La Cumparsita on Southwest Seventh. They’re still down there if you’ve got a photographer handy.”

  Then Meadows hung up. Maybe it was a dirty trick. Maybe Nelson would play it straight. But Meadows was one uptown architect who never designed anything that was not insured.

  “Damn,” Arthur exclaimed, “I haven’t had this much fun since we upset Notre Dame.”

  “You fell on a fumble,” Meadows said. It was done; he felt spent.

  “Indeed, with six seconds left,” Arthur said. “In the end zone. Two green shirts hanging onto me like pilotfish.”

  Terry asked, “How long before they open the briefcase, Chris?”

  “Not long, I’m sure. They’ll take it downtown. Bermúdez will deny it’s his, of course, but we left Nelson a lot of rope to play with.”

  They had packed the attaché case with care and cunning. In the lining, in a place where expert searchers were sure to look, were secreted two sheets of plain white paper typed by an anonymous IBM.

  One carried names like Manny, Moe, Alonzo, McRae—all the names Meadows could remember, except Patti Atchison. The second sheet held a half dozen names with a plain black line drawn through each. The names had one thing in common. They belonged to victims of recent cocaine violence.

  In the zippered compartment was a smoldering handwritten letter in Spanish to Queridissimo Josecito from a sexy lady named Carmen who could only be his mistress. When he finished reading it the first time, Meadows had been randy as hell.

  “That’s some fantasy,” he had muttered.

  “Fantasy?” Terry’s smile had been wicked. “Not fantasy, querido, history.”

  Meadows had contributed a book to the briefcase, a handsome volume called Banking for the Eighties. A square section of each page, 410 in all, had been carved out with a straight razor. In this space, Meadows had reverently laid the bag of stolen coke.

  One additional item completed the inventory: a receipt for a dozen yellow roses. Arthur had insisted.

  NELSON TOOK THE briefcase downtown, but he did not pry it open for nearly two hours. First, he had to arrange the release of the three Colombians; if their documents were in order and immigration had no interest in them, neither did he. The two Cuban gunmen Nelson would keep for a while.

  A shaken José Bermúdez drove home from La Cumparsita in his monogrammed Seville. The catastrophe at the restaurant surpassed understanding. He had gone in triumph. He had left stunned, in ashes.

  There would be no repairing the damage with the skittish and suspicious Colombians now. They would believe he had set them up. And they had been set up—and he along with them. But by whom?

  Not by the police. He had Octavio Nelson’s warmest apologies for the confusion and his most earnest promise to look for the young Anglo in the yellow T-shirt.

  Still, Bermúdez thought, it would have been better had Nelson not draped a hairy arm around his shoulders there in the parking lot while the handcuffed Colombians were being herded into a paddy wagon. Most unfortunate.

  Perhaps he should have gone to police headquarters with the old Colombian, stood by him, made him see that José Bermúdez had had no hand in the tragedy that destroyed their dinner and their relationship. No, his image in Miami would never have survived that; it would be hard enough to fend off the reporters as it was.

  As he wheeled the Cadillac into his driveway, José Bermúdez made a mental note to order a better alarm system and to hire some respectable bodyguards.

  OCTAVIO NELSON HAD never been good with locks, and it was nearly eleven before he jimmied the attaché case open with a screwdriver he found in the police locker. He sat on one of the gray varnished benches and examined the contents one by one, smiling wryly. “Nice try, amigo,” Nelson whispered, “but my way is better.” He heard footsteps on the terrazzo and slammed the briefcase shut. Wilbur Pincus turned the corner and stopped. His eyes were pink, and his voice was raw.

  “There you are,” he said to Octavio Nelson. “I’ve got some bad news, Captain.”

  MEADOWS WAS STILL asleep the next morning when Terry, cross-legged at the foot of the bed, found the story submerged on page four of the Journal’s local news section:

  RAID ON MIAMI RESTAURANT NETS COKE, COLOMBIANS

  by Clara Jackson

  A WILD SUPPERTIME RAID by Metro narcotics detectives Saturday night led to the seizure of nearly a pound of high-grade cocaine at a popular Little Havana restaurant.

  Acting on a tip, nine detectives stormed the La Cumparsita restaurant on SW Seventh Street shortly after 8:00 P.M., according to police spokesman Jim McWilliams.

  About 400 grams of cocaine were discovered in a brown briefcase, McWilliams said. Three Colombians and two Cuban-Americans were arrested at the scene. The Colombians were turned over to the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service, which refused to release their names.

  The Cuban suspects have been charged with possession of a controlled substance, resisting arrest with violence, possession of unregistered firearms and assault. McWilliams said both men gave their names as “Juan Fernández.”

  Also detained briefly at the restaurant was prominent Cuban-exile banker José Bermúdez. He was released at the scene after brief questioning by police.

  Reached at his home late Saturday night Bermúdez told the Journal he was dining with a friend when police stormed the restaurant. “I didn’t know what was going on,” he said. “I guess I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “The police did an excellent job,” Bermúdez added. “They made their arrests swiftly, and no one got hurt. They are to be commended.”

  Victor Volstok, the owner of La Cumparsita, was unavailable for comment.

  Terry’s fury propelled Meadows out of bed.

  “They let him go,” she cried. “Nelson, the bastard, he let him
go! ¡Hijo de puta!”

  Meadows took the newspaper and read the story silently. His face showed no surprise. When the telephone rang, he stretched across the bed and snatched it off the hook. It was Arthur.

  “They fucked us, man.”

  “I’m reading about it right now,” Meadows said.

  “Your cop friend is a prick,” Arthur snarled, his voice thick with sleep.

  “Take it easy,” Meadows said.

  “He bought his way out,” Terry fumed. “He opened his wallet and Nelson dove in.”

  Meadows put a finger to his lips. Terry reddened, exasperated.

  “What now?” Arthur said wearily.

  “I don’t know,” Meadows said with a trace of a smile. “You up for some chess later?”

  Chapter 31

  FOUR DAYS LATER an open grave appeared on a small rise overlooking an artificial lake. It was a prime lot in the new Catholic cemetery on the fringes of the Everglades, a gravesite befitting such an important man as José Bermúdez.

  Many mourners came. Businessmen and civic leaders. Office workers and laborers. A congressman and the mayor. A bishop said the mass and read prayers over the grave. There were many Cubans and nearly as many Anglos, for the dynamic man who lay in the oak casket had bridged the gap between the communities in Miami.

  The mourners placed their wreaths and said their prayers and shed their tears, and they drove away. Now only three old men remained, hatless in the noonday sun.

  “So young, so young. Que descanse en paz,” Pedro murmured in private oration. He wrung gnarled hands that were stained a leather brown from sixty years of making cigars. It was like losing a son.

  “The ways of God are strange.” Raúl sniffled.

  As usual, it was Jesús who took charge.

  “It is for us to mourn, but it is also for us to understand,” he said softly.

  “What do you mean?” asked Raúl.

  “It was no accident. A careful man like that. Was it an accident that our shop burned to the ground just three days earlier? Was that an accident, too? If that is what you believe, my friends, then you are fools!”

  There was a long moment of silence. A duck landed noisily on the artificial lake. A backhoe began digging nearby.

  Raúl stared mutely at the fresh-turned earth. Pedro’s shoulders slumped in sudden, terrible realization.

  “Castro!” Raúl spit.

  “Comunistas de mierda,” Pedro whispered. Jesús nodded grimly.

  He shuffled to the edge of the grave and reached into his pocket. Then all three stiffened to attention as the paper Cuban flag fluttered from Jesús’s shaking hands onto the casket.

  “Murío por Cuba,” Jesús intoned bravely. He had died for Cuba.

  The old men wept.

  Epilogue

  “DON’T JERK IT, you’ll pull it out of his mouth,” Meadows advised mildly.

  “Carajo,”Octavio Nelson grunted, “I know how to fish. I’m just a little rusty, that’s all. I’ll get him.”

  Meadows watched the struggle from the captain’s chair of the Seacraft. It was a brilliant day that tasted of the subtle Florida autumn, and they had been drifting north along the edge of the Gulf Stream where a chain of seaweed promised dolphin. Meadows felt very good.

  “Mierda. I lost him.”

  Nelson plopped the rod in its holder near the stem and pulled a fresh can of beer from the ice chest.

  “Why aren’t you fishing?”

  Meadows shrugged.

  “Why should I work when somebody will do it for me?”

  Nelson swallowed deeply.

  “You know, you’re a funny guy, amigo. I got to thinking about you a lot while you were away.” Nelson drank again. “And what I think is that you conned me. I think that all the bullshit about law and order and justice was smoke.”

  “Oh?” Meadows said neutrally.

  “All you ever really wanted to do was drive a wedge between Bermúdez and the Colombians, am I right? You didn’t care if I arrested him. And the briefcase. That was a prop. Just like me.”

  Meadows stared at the sea. He picked up one of the fishing rods and aimed for the weed line.

  Nelson lighted a cigar.

  “Watch the match,” Meadows said. “We got gas in the boat.”

  Nelson chuckled. “You should have seen that old fart down at headquarters.”

  “The Colombian?”

  “Yeah, we hassled him pretty good. Strip-searched him, the whole routine. All the while he kept looking around for his pal Bermúdez. Couldn’t figure out why Bermúdez wasn’t there, too. He was mad enough to bite, the Colombian was.”

  “There’s a fish rising over there. Why don’t you try floating a live shrimp this time?”

  Nelson ignored him. He wagged his cigar toward a distant lighthouse, a white derrick on the horizon. “Fowey Rocks?”

  Meadows squinted. “I think so.”

  “That’s where they found the body.”

  Meadows said, “In a shirt and tie.”

  “Yeah. Some boating accident, huh?”

  “The papers said he left Crandon Marina with two guys in a speedboat.”

  Nelson shrugged. “That’s what the dockmaster says.”

  “Any other leads?”

  Nelson pursed his lips and blew smoke into the fickle sea breeze. “I don’t investigate boating accidents,” he said.

  Meadows twisted the drag down on his reel until it was tightened to his satisfaction. “I was out of town when it happened,” he said. “Arthur saved the clipping.”

  “And I was at my brother’s funeral.”

  The breeze died. It was the last they spoke of José Bermúdez.

  Meadows reeled in his line. His bait, a small blue runner, was dead, torn in half. A thread of violet gut hung from the wounds.

  “Fucking barracudas,” Nelson surmised.

  “Or sharks,” Meadows said, twisting the mangled fish from the hook. “You know, it’s true about sharks. They’ll eat just about anything. And if you cut one, the others in the school will eat it alive. I’ve seen it happen myself.”

  “Me too,” Nelson said. “Every day.”

  Meadows scooped another runner from the baitwell and hooked him higher this time, behind the first dorsal point in the back. He stood up and cast the big spinning outfit as far as he could behind the boat. The fish landed with a muted slap. A gull circled overhead, piping hungrily.

  “How was your hearing at the police department?”

  “No problem,” Nelson said.

  It had lasted only one hour. Pincus had read in a firm voice from his blue notebook. The guy was amazing, a regular stenographer. He wrote down everything, Nelson marveled. Then to resurrect Aristidio Cruz, Cristo! Pincus had the balls of a bull elephant, that was for sure.

  The hearing officer from internal review was an old academy pal of Nelson’s. He had listened to Pincus for twenty minutes, then told him to sit down, thank you very much.

  “Octavio, let’s hear from you.”

  “Captain, Roberto was my brother, but I didn’t know what the hell he was up to. I had his car towed as a favor, that’s all. I’ll reimburse the department for that. I did give him a ride to the airport, also as a favor. That I won’t bother to defend. This Cruz thing I can’t even remember.”

  “OK,” the hearing officer had said. And a few minutes later: “Thanks for your time, gentlemen. I’m going to rule that there is insufficient cause for action in this case. The complaint is not sustained.”

  Nelson was halfway out the door when Wilbur Pincus caught up with him. “I’m sorry,” he had said plaintively. “About your brother. About everything. I…I sent some flowers.”

  “That was very thoughtful,” Nelson had replied, “but you should have come to the funeral. Your friend Mr. Cruz was there.”

  “Why?” Pincus had said, his voice fading suddenly. “How did he know Roberto?”

  “Strictly business, amigo.”

  Nelson’s rod dipped, and h
e set the hook and hauled in a small mangrove snapper. “A few more of these, and we have dinner,” he announced.

  “So is Pincus quitting?” Meadows asked intently.

  “Are you kidding? He’s doing great, a regular star. They gave him a new partner, and already he’s got a big case. Your Cuban friends we busted at ‘Cumparsi’s.’ The one with the fucked-up ear and his buddy, the fashion plate.”

  “The sketches?”

  “Right. Their names are Contreras and Losada. Pincus has got ’em cold. I thought I told you about it.”

  “No,” Meadows said. “What are the charges?”

  “Murder.”

  “Whose?”

  “Your old pal Mono.”

  “But you told me that case was closed.”

  “Was. Sure was,” Nelson said with a pirate’s grin, “until that knife turned up in the trunk of Losada’s Continental. I searched all over the airport for that damned thing, but Pincus got a warrant and went through the car—and there it was. The lab says it’s definitely the right weapon.”

  Meadows gently raised the tip of the fishing rod, and it twitched a reply; the frantic little baitfish was still alive at the end of his line.

  “Nice work,” he said, reaching into Octavio Nelson’s pocket for a Cuban cigar.

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