by Don Donovan
Maxie nodded. "From the get-go. When Bob called me for help with the unions and with the Hialeah Building Department, Phil felt like he'd been tossed overboard. Like he was fucking useless. Then Bob had the financing set up, financing from people he knew, where he was getting a healthy kickback. Phil wasn't getting shit. That was when Phil knew the real score."
"So now with Bob gone, what happens to the financing?" said Vargas.
"It goes with him," Maxie said. "But I've got a new source of money for Phil. They're ready to put up the whole amount."
"Ha!" Silvana said. "New source? You and your drug dealer friends?"
"No, no, this is for real. These guys are totally legit."
"Legit?" said Vargas. "Where the fuck do you know them from, then?"
Maxie threw a hard glare at Vargas. "A friend of a friend, okay? A European investment company. You don't believe me, wait till the paperwork goes down and check 'em out."
Silvana said, "So how does this relate to Phil Harvey?"
"He wanted to go that route. It was more straight-arrow, easier for him to live with. Bob wanted to stay with his crony friends and take the kickbacks." Maxie pulled out a cigar. After clipping and carefully lighting it, he said, "I'm tellin' you, I had nothing to do with the Bob Harvey hit. I'm not saying for sure Phil did it. I'm just saying you can look him over. You got plenty of reason to like him for it."
Silvana looked at Vargas. He nodded once. She said, "Okay, we'll look into it. But we better find something concrete that puts him in the headlights."
"You will," he said.
9
Alicia
Miami, Florida
Thursday, April 5, 2012
11:10 AM
THE BLONDE LYING NEXT TO ALICIA LOPEZ woke her up by eating her pussy. Alicia had told her to do that last night after she had fucked this girl for hours with a strap-on, leaving herself exhausted. The only way to function after such strenuous sex, she knew, was to start the next day off with a hearty muff dive.
And this was the girl to do it. She was Brazilian, and brother, if there was one thing Alicia liked better than sex with her husband, it was sex with Brazilian hookers. They were the best-looking girls on the fucking planet, and she'd never known anyone in all her thirty-one years more skilled at giving head than these stunning creatures from south of the Equator. No other girls — or men — could touch them. Well … there were a couple of Cuban girls here in Miami who could give the Brazilians a run for their money, and she wasn't letting pride in her own Cuban heritage show whenever those memories crossed her mind. And of course, Nick, her husband, knew all the right buttons to push. But he was the only man who ever really got through to her. Also, she recalled that Texas girl who stood out, but overall, she thought, Brazil turns out the best ones by far. Very consistent. Something in the water down there or something.
The bed was round, eight feet in diameter. Alicia awoke to find herself somewhere in the middle of it, away from the semicircular headboard, the girl's thick blonde hair swirling around her head while she performed her splendid oral service. She writhed in complete synch with the Brazilian girl who was now working harder, lifting her higher, higher, until Alicia's final long, loud groan filled the sunny room.
It took her a minute to catch her breath. The sheets were damp and she was covered in sweat, but the air in her condo was running full blast and she knew she would cool down quickly.
She looked down at the girl through deep-set eyes. God, she was gorgeous! The girl smiled at her, showing two rows of perfect, gleaming white teeth, further enhanced by her butterscotch complexion.
She asked Alicia in Portuguese-accented Spanish, "Can I do a line?"
Alicia motioned toward the coffee table on the other side of the bedroom, between the four leather sling chairs. There was a little pile of coke on the glass top, next to it a razor blade. The stuff was always there. She never did any of it herself, though, having been raised on Scarface and Commandment Number One: Don't get high on your own supply. Not that she ever sold it or anything. Well, not since way back when, anyway. That wasn't her thing at all. The shit was just there for the bitches.
The blonde walked naked to the table and cut herself two slim lines.
That was one great goddamn movie, Scarface. She had the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary Edition Blu-Ray version. Deleted scenes, a "making of" documentary, all kinds of good stuff. She watched the whole thing about once every two or three months. The first few years, she watched it for a sort of reverse inspiration, to make sure she knew what not to do. Nowadays, though, she just liked to spot little details she missed in all her other viewings. And she damn sure spotted something new every time out — a clever line, an article of clothing worn by one of the characters, a sharp camera angle — some little corner of the film that eluded her before.
But she did make sure she never got high, even though since she went into laundering many years ago, she had no personal supply. For that matter, she never did anything stronger than wine, or maybe an occasional shot of single-malt whiskey, and even then, not much of that. No coke, meth, not even marijuana. Not since she was a kid. You see some of these guys coked up twenty-four seven, guys who oversee big organizations, who should know better, for God's sake. It made her wonder how they ever got to where they were in the first place.
She'd done a little business in Mexico a couple of years ago, a one-time arrangement to hide some cash for a couple of big boys. Ciudad Juárez it was, and those top two guys in the cartel were high all the fucking time. That Juárez cartel is one gigantic goddamn organization, and these guys, the guys who ran it, were slaves to their own fucking product. It was unbelievable! That's what happens when you think you can snort coke all day long and run a major operation like Juárez. You get so fucked up you can't think clearly, you can't make decisions. And you will lose respect from those around you. Word gets out and pretty soon, you're swallowing your own blood.
Look at Tony Montana. Look what happened to him! By the end of the movie, when he was lying face down in that bloody pool, after taking God knows how many bullets, he was so fucking zonked out on his own shit, you didn't know whether he had more cocaine or lead inside him.
A year or so ago, Alicia heard those two Juárez guys were found in a sitting position, opposite each other, their legs crossed with their heads carefully placed upright on their laps, scalps missing.
She was not only keenly aware of the dangers of doing drugs, but she had a vast, extensive pool of knowledge about the incomprehensible sums of money that industry produced. This knowledge came about — was fueled, actually — by her own insatiable curiosity.
Her understanding of the economics of the drug world had begun simmering at a relatively early age, when she started selling coke. It was the money that drew her to that world, of course. She didn't have any — nor did her family — and she wanted it, just like all the other girls she knew. Growing up poor and becoming hypnotized by the fabulous wealth displayed on the television shows she watched at home, she naturally reached for anything that sparkled. Trendy fashions, flashy cars, smooth and handsome men … she wanted all of it. But it wasn't only the sheer accumulation of money that attracted her. Her curious bone was tweaked by how all this money moves through the system, how unimaginable sums are collected and processed by God knows who. She used to think, It's all got to go somewhere. Where does it end up? And how does it get there?
Her first deal was the purchase of two marijuana joints when she was fourteen. She sold one and made back her investment, then smoked the other one. Immediately upon handing her hard-earned dollars to that guy on East Eighth Avenue, she wondered what quantity he had originally bought in order to sell her the two joints and still make money. Her mind traveled freely and tried to conceive of how much he paid for it and to whom, and so on up the line.
In any case, she soon realized if she had sold both joints, she would have made twice her investment. It was at that moment in her life, seventeen years ago, t
hat she stopped doing drugs.
≈ ≈ ≈
Still naked but now fully alert, she organized her thoughts. There was one matter she needed to take care of. She slithered up the bed to the nightstand and picked up her cell phone. Scrolling through the directory, she came to the number she wanted and punched it in.
Two rings later: "Desi, it's me. Alicia."
"Alicia! Hey, girl! ¿Cómo estás? ¿Qué pasó?"
"I'm great, hermano. How about you?"
He said, "Aw, I'm doin' great too. I been …"
Desi went on a little about his current activities, in code of course, in case there was bad company on the line. Alicia looked over at the coffee table. The hooker's blonde hair hung down in front of her as she dipped her head to snort the powder. "That's good, Desi," she said. "That's real good. Listen, I'd like to see you today. Can you meet me in about an hour? We can have a little lunch."
"Lunch? Sure thing! It'll be great to see you!"
"Yeah, it will. Meet me at the Tavern at the Hotel Croydon. It's in Miami Beach. Collins Avenue between 37th and 38th Streets."
"Got it," Desi said.
"Okay. Let's make it about twelve-thirty, all right?"
"Cómo no, hermana. A las doce y media."
Alicia mumbled, "See you then," and ended the call.
She leaped out of bed just as the blonde was returning, her youthful, Brazilian breasts leading the way. Temptation lit up this girl's eyes, visible ideas about keeping Alicia in bed a while longer, but she put her hands on the girl's shoulders and spun her around. Told her to throw her clothes on and leave. She gave her a sharp spank on the ass as punctuation and the girl squealed, but then she smiled and did as she was told.
As Alicia hustled her out the bedroom door, the girl awkwardly pulled her dress over her nakedness. When she was gone, Alicia went over to a pair of sliding glass doors in the bedroom and slid them open, stepping nude out onto the balcony. Forty-three floors above the city, which was now bathed in sunlight and wholly engaged for the day. Her elbows rested on the balcony rail as she took in the spectacular view. This high, the traffic noise fell away to a mere whisper, even after echoing in the canyon-like walls of nearby skyscrapers. But she still felt the activity all the way up here, felt the restless motion of Miami, the pulse that throbbed day and night like a salsa rhythm and made this city like no other.
Turning to her left, she took in the soothing calm of the expansive sea, bound only by the line of the horizon. A few sailboats drifted along here and there and Alicia thought about the people on those boats. Who are they? What are they doing now? At this very moment. Where do they come from? Boats weren't her thing — she never cared for them, thought they were big money pits, but she did wonder for a second or two if any cocaine was on those boats crossing her line of vision. She chuckled and supposed there might well be. And there was no question that part of the money they spent on whatever cocaine there was found its way to her and eventually helped pay for this condo on the forty-third floor. This condo whose balcony she was standing on watching their boat pass by with cocaine on board.
There was a sort of lovely symmetry about that, she thought, as she turned her gaze back to the cityscape.
A couple of blocks away, a man stood on the balcony of a taller building, maybe ten stories higher than she was. He looked down at her well-toned naked body and waved. She could see a broad smile underneath messed-up black hair. He looked pretty good — maybe late thirties, although it was hard to tell from this distance. Something about him gave off a kind of sensation she liked, drawing a chuckle out of her. He vibed, "I see what I want and I'm going to step up and take it."
That's how she always was. Want, take. The taking part doesn't always have to be by force, though. There are lots of ways to take something, ways in which the person who's giving it up doesn't even have to know you're taking it. Alicia's dark, angular face and natural charisma did a lot of the work for her. Force was often unnecessary.
Another chuckle and she waved back. I wonder what his story is, she thought. Does he have a woman inside that apartment, maybe showering or something? What does he do? For a living, I mean. How did he wind up in that classy building?
After a couple of deep breaths of the cool ocean air, she turned and went back inside. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the man was still there on his balcony, still looking in her direction, throwing her a final wave.
She showered and dressed from the selection of clothes she kept at this condo. Nothing too fancy, this was only lunch with Desi. She selected the right outfit and tossed it on. Finally, she went into the living room. Her bodyguard stood when she entered.
She said, "Berto, el carro. Cinco minutos."
"Sí, jefa," Berto replied, and he went to get the car.
Five minutes later, Alicia stepped out of the lobby of her building. The car was waiting in the porte-cochère, motor softly humming. Berto got out and came around to the passenger side. He opened the rear door and she slid in. A Bentley Mulsanne, nearly three hundred grand worth of luxury automobile. A rolling comfort zone if ever there was one. Many cows and trees perished in the making of the car's interior, but right now, Alicia was only interested in the fourteen speakers that surrounded her as she slipped a salsa CD into the drive and sat back.
"Hotel Croydon, Miami Beach," she told Berto, who dropped it into gear and they glided away to the frantic sounds of Los Jefes.
10
Alicia
Miami Beach, Florida
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
12:25 PM
THE CROYDON TAVERN is an agreeable casual dining kind of place, with a well-appointed indoor area. Set inside a restored seven-story hotel, it promises — and delivers — a pleasant experience. Black and white tiles cover the floor, each tile carrying a different geometric design for a unique visual effect. These tiles continue to a shaded outdoor dining area, bistro-style, with a satisfactory view of Collins Avenue. Alicia always liked to come here. It wasn't ultra-fancy, and she certainly could afford to dine at far more expensive eateries, but the food here was good, the service was excellent, and they gave her the "A" treatment. What was not to like?
She arrived at twenty-five after twelve, time enough to select the table. She didn't want to leave that to Desi, who would probably choose to sit indoors. There was this one outdoor table she liked, and whenever they saw her coming, they set it up for her right away. She held up two fingers, and busboys hustled to arrange the table for Doña Alicia and her guest.
Desi came walking up right at twelve-thirty. Alicia caught his attention with a wave and he approached the table. Desi looked good, but of course, he wasn't good-looking. He never was, unlike Alicia, who had been charming people with her looks all her life, all the way from girlhood. Desi had kept his shape, though. Still built like a boxer, big chest, heavy biceps, solid thighs, a tree stump of a guy. Someone you wanted to have on your side in a brawl. Decked pretty good today, too, sporting Calvin Kleins and what looked like a designer shirt, or at least a decent knockoff. Nice loafers. Desi cleans up nicely, she thought. Then she thought, I shouldn't say that, not even to myself. We go back too far and he's really a great guy. El es como mi hermano.
A hug, a few pleasantries, and they sat down with beaming smiles. Alicia had taken the liberty to order a bottle of wine, which was produced immediately. Following the opening and pouring ritual, they clicked their glasses together and sipped at the wine. Collins Avenue hummed with traffic and a nice ocean breeze managed its way around the buildings to wash over the two of them.
Alicia could tell Desi was uncomfortable with the wine, being more of a beer drinker to the best of her recollection. She patiently waited for him while he fumbled with the glass and took too big of a gulp. Finally, she said, "Desi, my brother, I gotta tell you, you look great."
"You too, Alicia. It's been so long since I've seen you. Like a couple of years now. Maybe a little longer?"
"I know, I know. It's my fault. I haven't
called you as often as I should have. We're too close not to see each other more often. Will you forgive me?"
"Aw, no forgiving necessary, hermana," Desi said. "I know you're very busy. It's okay."
"Well, still, I feel … you know, guilty."
Desi waved it off. "Forget it, Alicia." The waitress appeared. "Hey, what's good here?" He looked the menu over.
"Everything," she said. She turned her winning ways on the waitress. "Sweetheart, could you give us a couple of minutes, please?"
The waitress said of course she could, smiling back at Alicia and moving to another table.
Alicia said, "Hey, you know I've got a daughter now?"
A wide grin spread across Desi's face. "Wow, a daughter! That's dope! What's her name?"
"Francesca. She just turned two last month. Es la sonrisa de mi corazón." Now Alicia smiled the big smile of the proud mama.
Desi said, "Francesca. ¡Qué nombre más bonito!"
"Aahh, you should see her, Desi. She looks just like her father. Got the same big eyes and square chin. She's … she's just everything to me, you know?"
"Before you know it," Desi said with a chuckle, "she's gonna come up to you one evening and say, 'Mama, there's a boy outside'."
"Ha!" Alicia said. "And that's where that little prick's gonna stay!"
Desi laughed. "Oh, I bet she'll be a real heartbreaker. Just like her mother."
The waitress soon returned. They ordered and finally settled down into each other's presence. Alicia caught the look in Desi's eyes wondering what this lunch was all about. She didn't keep him waiting.
"You know, Desi," she said, "I think you should know this." She paused as Desi picked up his wineglass and looked across the table at her. She stared back at him under heavy lids and said, "Bebop is back in town."
That caught Desi mid-sip of his wine. He froze with the glass to his mouth, the wine sloshing up against closed lips. His teeth started to clench and Alicia noticed he very nearly bit off the rim of the glass.
