AGAINST THE WIND (Book Two of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  "Sure it's a lot of money. But you're making a lot of money. I know what a gram sells for and I know how much you pay for a kilo. You step on the shit however many times, you're making at least ten times what you paid for it. So save the sob story. A grand is a drop in the fucking bucket."

  "But every week! It's gotta stop."

  "Stop?" she said. "You want it to stop? You can stop it any time you want, cabrón. Just tell me you're not going to cough up anymore and it'll stop. Of course, you might want to rethink that, once you realize how even more fucked up that face of yours is going to look when Vargas and I get through with it. And that's before we take you in on several felony drug counts. I think with mandatory sentencing, you'd be looking at, oh, fifteen years or more. Each count, that is. And of course as you know, there's no parole in Florida."

  Desi said nothing. She said nothing. She clearly wanted him to respond.

  Finally, he said, "Yeah, okay."

  "Okay what, motherfucker?"

  A deep breath, and he said, "Okay, see you next week."

  6

  Josh

  Brooklyn, New York

  Monday, April 2, 2012

  8:15 AM

  DAYLIGHT COULDN'T BLAST THROUGH the dark curtains in the apartment on Fulton Street, so it peeked around them. It slithered right through that little crack where the curtains weren't totally flush against the window, where they separated just enough for the sun to stream directly onto Josh Daigle's closed eyelids, rousing him from an unpleasant dream. Even though classes were out for spring break and he didn't have to get up this morning, he still couldn't grab a decent night's sleep.

  As was his habit, he groped the nightstand for his cell phone. Flicking it on, he saw what he'd been waiting for: a text from "Roberto", a Latino guy he knew from around. He was pretty sure Roberto was not his real name. Not that it mattered, of course, because Josh didn't really care. All he cared about was getting the instructions Roberto had promised to text him.

  Josh had met Roberto not in his classes at LIU, but over at the Brooklyn Brewhouse a few blocks away, a student hangout. It was a couple of weeks ago, during March Madness, and Josh had a primo seat at the bar to watch Syracuse play Kansas State. He had two hundred on Syracuse to win it all, which promised a nice payday if they did.

  Roberto, a pretty ordinary looking guy with dark hair and not in very good shape, took the seat next to him. He began chatting Josh up, and pretty soon, they were talking like old friends — their favorite little restaurants in the area, the hotness of Brooklyn girls, the Mets' chances. A couple of beers later, Roberto dropped one right in his lap: would Josh like to take a trip for some serious cash?

  Serious cash always got his attention. That, and women. He knew he was good-looking. At an even six feet tall, his smile was his most winsome feature. Broad and bright, he could light up a dull conversation just by flashing it. He could cause stirrings deep in female loins by combining it with a few well-chosen words. And since he arrived at college from his hometown of Westbury, further out on Long Island, there were more than a few women here in Brooklyn, younger — as well as much older — who had become entranced by him and his wicked smile and those well-chosen words.

  A degree from the School of Business at Long Island University, Brooklyn Campus, in which he was enrolled, was theoretically his ticket to a better life and, even more theoretically, to that serious cash that he loved, but Roberto offered it right now and with a lot less work.

  "There's nothing to it," Roberto told him that night at the Brewhouse. "All you have to do is drive a car to Florida over the weekend and leave it there. The address will be on a piece of paper in the glove box."

  "How much do I get?"

  "Five grand," Roberto said.

  Josh's eyebrows shot up. "Holy shit! Five grand?"

  "Cash money."

  Josh said, "What about gas?"

  "Keep your gas receipts. I'll reimburse you when you get back. You'll have a plane ticket back to JFK on Sunday. You're back in the Big Apple in time for the Mets game."

  This was sounding pretty fucking sweet. "When do I go?" he asked.

  "Wait for my text. It will tell you when to leave and when and where to pick up the car."

  They went over the rest of the instructions right then. Always drive five miles an hour under the speed limit, never more. No drinking. No drugs of any kind. Take a female with you. Pay her out of your end. Only stop for gas and food. No motels. Drive straight through by taking turns.

  "Do this right and you can do it again," Roberto said, patting Josh's broad football shoulder. "Several more times if you want. Same good money each time."

  "Why can't you do it?" Josh said. "Is there something illegal going on? Like a stolen car deal or something?"

  "That's not your problem," Roberto said. And right then, Josh knew it was illegal. With a capital "I".

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Lying in bed, holding his cell phone in his limp hand after reading the text, he gave this a lot of thought. This was actually going to happen! The text told him to pick up the car this coming Friday, a white 2005 Hyundai with New York plates, in a parking lot a few blocks down Fulton Street from his apartment. There would be a twenty-dollar bill in the console to pay the attendant. He was to leave on Friday and arrive in Florida no later than nine o'clock Saturday night.

  Following a full-body stretch, he shambled over to his laptop and checked the driving distance from Brooklyn to Miami. Thirteen hundred miles, give or take, nearly all of it on interstate highways. Given the restriction of five miles under the speed limit the entire way, Josh conservatively calculated the trip would take nearly twenty-four hours. Add another four or five hours for gas and food stops and traffic around big cities, and he pinned his departure at around two o'clock Friday afternoon. That should put him at his destination with time to spare.

  Toni Chenoweth had been hanging around him more than he would have liked for a couple of months now. She was sort of cute, although not cute enough to where he would waste any time with her. But … Roberto had said to take a girl with him on this trip, and he figured it best not to take some girl he had his eye on. Such a girl would be a distraction the whole way, what with him probably wanting to fuck her at every rest area.

  No, this was business and he would be wise not to screw it up. At least he'd learned that much in his two years at LIU's Business School. Don't screw it up. If this was going to turn into something regular at five thousand dollars a pop, like Roberto said, then he's got to take someone along who he doesn't give a shit about. Someone like Toni Chenoweth.

  7

  Josh

  Brooklyn, New York

  Monday, April 2, 2012

  12:05 PM

  HE HAD ONCE HEARD TONI GO ON about this place called MOB, a little vegan joint four or five blocks away, down on Atlantic Avenue. She said she had lunch there often. He hated vegan food — all that tofu and other creepy shit — but along about noon, he went there anyway, looking for her.

  It was cold outside, still in the low 40s, but at least the sun was out for a change and there was no rain. He put on his leather jacket and took the stroll over to MOB.

  As soon as he walked in, he saw her seated at one of the rickety tables with a skanky girlfriend, someone he couldn't place. He approached the table and she looked up. A big smile reflexively broke out all over her face.

  Her eyes, big and brown, went with her hair, which was also big and brown. Her heart-shaped face contained a really small mouth and tapered down to a delicate chin which pointed outward above an Audrey Hepburn-like long, long neck.

  "Hi, Toni," he said.

  "Why … hi, Josh b'gosh," she said, using the alliteration by which she had recently started addressing him. He knew she was trying to insinuate herself into his life and she obviously felt this was one cute little way to do it. "Well, how are you doing?" She couldn't contain her enthusiasm.

  "I'm great," he said, pouring on his smile. The girl with Toni, s
till somewhat out of the picture, blushed.

  Toni picked up on it. "Oh, Josh, let me introduce you to Ellin. She lives right down the hall from me in my apartment building."

  "Hi, Ellin. Pleased to know you." Josh extended a hand and Ellin placed her hand in his. He thought it would melt.

  Toni pointed to a chair. "Won't you join us?"

  "Thanks," he said. "I'd love to. But there's something I want to talk to you about. It's pretty important."

  She glanced at Ellin, who said, "Well, I have to be going anyway. I've got to read up on the Bill of Rights for when classes resume. American Government class, you know."

  Josh nodded like he knew, and Ellin left. Toni never looked at her, unable to remove her gaze from Josh's amazing face while he took a seat.

  "So what brings you here today, big fella?" she asked in her hearty voice.

  The waitress came to the table right then and asked Josh if he wanted to see a menu. He shook his head and she went back where she came from.

  Meanwhile, he never quit smiling. "I'll come right to the point," he said to Toni. "How would you like to take a trip to Florida with me?"

  "Florida?" She managed to set her fork down before it fell from her hand. "Wh-what do you mean?"

  "I mean Florida," he said, broadening his smile to megawatt levels. "You and me. We leave Friday. What do you say?"

  "What do I say? You're asking me to go to Florida with you? Why?"

  "I have to drive a car down to Miami for a friend of mine and I don't want to make the trip alone." Her hand was on the table and he gently placed his hand on hers. "I want you to go with me. We can make a little vacation out of it. What do you say?"

  Now Toni widened her own smile. It wasn't nearly as winning as Josh's but it was far more sincere. "Miami? I — I don't know, Josh. I mean I'd love to, of course, but Friday, that's pretty soon."

  "Come on," he said. "It'll be an adventure. Spur of the moment. Just the two of us." Then he lowered his voice ever so slightly and murmured, "Come on. Say yes." He squeezed her hand with just the right amount of pressure.

  She said yes.

  8

  Silvana

  Coral Gables, Florida

  Wednesday, April 4, 2012

  11:55 AM

  BOB HARVEY'S FUNERAL WAS BIG. Really big. Lots of important people showed up — the mayor, most of the City Commissioners, all of the County Commissioners, a couple of Congressmen, even the Governor. Appropriate black limos snaked along the narrow driveways of the cemetery, their drivers lingering among the cars, smoking and chatting with each other.

  Even though powerful outdoor speakers had been specially installed, the large crowd still strained to hear the priest's words over the casket. He was soft-spoken, obviously unaccustomed to large audiences. His breathy voice barely made it to the first couple of rows as he extolled Bob Harvey and the great accomplishments of his life.

  Silvana and Vargas stationed themselves at the outer edges of the throng, properly dressed in black to blend in. Their eyes scanned the crowd.

  Despite the overwhelming size of the event, it was still conducted with dignity. Silvana figured this to be the brother's doing. Where it could have veered into caricature, it remained well within the bounds of respectability, reaching the proper level of majesty without sailing over the top. She assumed the brother, Phil Harvey, wanted him to have a proper sendoff. Bob, as the older brother, was probably someone he always looked up to ever since they were kids.

  When the service ended, everyone filed past Phil and Consuela, Bob's widow, to offer their final words of condolence, all about what a great guy Bob was and how everybody loved him. Consuela doled out all the appropriate nods, showing her deep appreciation for each person's attendance. After they paid their respects, they piled into the limos, which fired up and slowly motored out of the cemetery.

  One of the final mourners to shake Phil's hand was Maxie Méndez. Silvana knew Maxie's age to be right at fifty, but all his excess weight, and there was plenty of it, made him look ten years older. The blonde on his arm was around twenty-five and utterly without excess weight. She wore a tight black dress that showed plenty of cleavage and her walk conveyed an attitude Silvana didn't like. The black veil over her heavily-painted face didn't make her look any more respectable. Silvana made her as one of Maxie's strippers.

  With the crowd thinning fast, Silvana and Vargas backed away toward their car just over the rise. They saw Maxie have a few words with Phil before making for his Mercedes Maybach, more expensive than any two of the limos combined. It stood nearby with gaping doors and liveried driver.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Back in the car, Vargas said from behind the wheel, "Where to?"

  "Hialeah," Silvana said. "Maxie's probably going back to work. Let's brace him there."

  "Do we have anything to go on?"

  "Flaco called me last night and gave me some data. Not a lot, but enough to get his attention."

  She briefed Vargas and they reached Hialeah in less than a half-hour. Traffic on the Palmetto, usually a nightmare any time of day or night, was eerily light. Vargas made the most of it and sped up to eighty. After an exit and a turn, they soon pulled into the strip center on West 49th Street that housed Lolita's Liquors.

  Lolita's occupied two adjacent storefronts to make up one huge liquor store. Vargas parked in the handicapped spot closest to the entrance and they went in, straight to the back door marked "Employees Only" and beyond that, toward the door marked "Private". The goon standing guard moved to block their way, then saw who it was. He stepped aside and they sauntered in.

  Maxie was on the phone, and for some reason the air conditioning which cooled off the rest of the store to perfection wasn't functioning back here. The jacket to Maxie's funeral suit and his tie were off, draped over his high-backed leather chair, and he barked into the phone. His mustache dripped sweat, and his oily hair began to lose its slickness, crinkling up in the humid office. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, but within seconds, the perspiration was back. His expensive shirt stuck to his skin.

  "I'm tellin' you, it's like a fuckin' oven in here … Yeah … I dunno what happened … Hey, I don't give a shit if you got a call to go to the fuckin' White House, get over here and fix this. I'm dyin' here."

  He swiped the call off and looked up at Silvana and Vargas.

  "Air conditioning go down today, Maxie?" Silvana said.

  "What the fuck do you want? It ain't Friday."

  "We were in the neighborhood, so we're collecting early this week," she said.

  He eyed Vargas. "What's with the sidekick? You usually come by yourself."

  "I was feeling lonely. Now let's have it."

  "I tell you, ain't Friday."

  Silvana said, "Look at the bright side, Maxie. You won't see me again for nine whole days."

  Maxie reached into his pants pocket and came out with a roll of bills. "It ain't right," he said. "It ain't even Friday." He stripped the rubber band off the roll and counted out ten hundreds. Dropped them on the desk for Silvana to pick up, which she did.

  "I saw you at Bob Harvey's funeral," she said.

  "Yeah. I knew him. Too bad about what happened."

  "Do you mean too bad your shopping center has already broken ground, but now Bob Harvey won't be around to deliver the permanent financing for it? Or do you mean too bad because his brother is having second thoughts about honoring the deal you made with Bob?"

  "What deal are you talking about?" he said. "You're fulla shit."

  "What deal? I mean the deal giving you exclusive vending machine and video game rights in the entire center."

  "What fuckin' center? I don't know what you're sayin'."

  "Behave yourself, Maxie," Silvana said. "Loma Linda. The center that's going up right now over by Hialeah Park has got your fingerprints all over it. You're getting two adjacent storefronts in a primo location for another liquor store. And he's maybe even thinking of welshing on the deal that gives you a cut o
f the whole damn center. I know you wouldn't appreciate that. Not after all you've done for him."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Machado."

  Silvana took one step toward the desk. "Tell us, is the financing going to disappear now that Bob Harvey is dead? Is that it?"

  "Hey, what is this? What do you give a shit about all this anyway?"

  "We've got to find whoever put two slugs in Harvey's head, and all roads lead to you, my man."

  Maxie fumed. He brought the heel of his hand down, a sharp pound on his desk. A few droplets of sweat flew off his head. "I just put a thousand reasons in your pocket why I didn't do it. I give you that every fucking week, so don't come sniffing around here tryin' to link me to a murder."

  Silvana started gesturing with her hands, drawing Maxie's attention closer to her. "We wouldn't do that, Maxie. You should know that by now. But see, here's the problem. You're at the top of the suspect list for obvious reasons. Our boss knows that and he knows that we know it. So if we don't go after you, he's gonna want to know the reason why."

  "What are you gonna tell him?"

  Her gesturing grew more intense, like an infomercial pitchman.

  "Now, that's where you come in. If you can give us someone for that job, it makes us look like geniuses and takes the heat off you. You don't give us anyone, it puts us in a tough spot. You see our problem?"

  Maxie looked away, deep in thought. Silvana knew he was working the count. She was confident he would do the right thing. Finally, he looked up at her. "Take a look at Phil Harvey," he said.

  Silvana and Vargas both were stunned by that one.

  "That's right," Maxie said. "Phil Harvey. Him and his brother never got along, not even when they were kids. That's what Bob used to tell me. This shopping center started out as Phil's baby, or so he thought. He didn't want to think of himself as a front. You know, a front for Bob."

  "So it was Bob's project all along?" Vargas said.