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

by Don Donovan

  He set the wine down very slowly. "When?"

  Alicia modulated her voice downward. "I just found out last week, but word is he's been back about two months now. He was gone for a long time. Did a ten-year bit up at Starke. Attempted murder. Just got out."

  "I never could find that motherfucker," Desi said through gritted teeth.

  "I know, Desi. I know how hard you looked for him, for any fucking trace of him. When I heard he was back, I looked into it. I found out that after he — uh, right after your Dad's passing, he moved up to Fort Lauderdale. Hardly ever came back down here. Stayed a few years up there and then, you know, got busted and went away."

  "But he's out now?"

  "And back in Miami."

  Desi's breathing picked up steam. "Where is he?"

  Alicia put a hand on Desi's forearm. "Let me do it, carnal."

  "L-let you … let you …"

  "Sí. Tú me has conocido mucho tiempo. You know I will do it right. And you will never be suspected."

  "No," Desi said. "I can't … I … I have to do it myself."

  "Don't. Don't. I'm begging you. Let me do it. I have the means, I know the right guys, it will be done any way you say. I promise you. We will make that fucker pay in blood for what he took from you so long ago."

  Desi squirmed. The waitress brought the food.

  "I — I —"

  Alicia said, "He's a tough guy, Desi. A very tough guy. He's not easy to get to, not easy to take him clean."

  "I don't give a fuck! I have to do it. You must understand, hermana."

  "Sí, sí. Te entiendo. But I'm telling you, man, if you try, you might fail. Or he might get you first. I don't want to see that, see you go down. Or, shit, you might even get caught! But if I arrange it, he's one dead nigger. After he goes through a lot of pain, of course."

  "I don't care about any of that," Desi said. "If I fail, if he gets me, that's the way it goes. But I have to do this myself. Now, where is he?"

  She sighed, long and loud. "He's back in the coke business. Just got himself set up. I heard this from one of my clients. Bebop's buying from him so he can sell to his retail customers."

  "When is his next buy?"

  Alicia picked at her salad, not sure if she wanted to give up that detail. She knew Desi would be facing long odds if he tried to take Bebop out during the deal.

  She said, "Do you remember from years ago when we did that deal with him? He had two guys backing him up. He might have more now. I'm telling you, you can't go in there alone. You won't stand a chance."

  "I'm not going to take him during the deal. Just tell me when and where it's going to be. Let me worry about the rest."

  "I really don't want to do this," Alicia sighed. She sipped her wine again, picked some more at her salad, anything to avoid opening the door to the location of Bebop's coke deal, a door Desi would walk through and maybe never return. Then she said, "State Road 7 in North Miami. Corner of Northwest 127th Street. There's this big lumber yard. Turn on 127th and go behind the lumber yard. That's where my clients are meeting him."

  "When?"

  "Friday night. Eleven PM. But listen, don't go back there and start shooting up the place. I'm not telling those boys anything about this and I don't want them getting hurt, understand?"

  "I understand," Desi said. "One more thing. What kind of car will your guys be driving?"

  "Land Rover. Dark blue."

  He took a final sip of wine and got up from the table. "Thanks for the lunch. Y por la información, hermana. Lo agradezco mucho."

  11

  Alicia

  Miami, Florida

  Wednesday, April 4, 2012

  2:20 PM

  THE BENTLEY TURNED OFF the MacArthur Causeway onto Bridge Road. There was a fender-bender at the entry ramp to the Causeway and traffic was backed up on both sides. It took forever to get here. Fucking rubberneckers will slow down for anything, Alicia thought. I swear those idiots don't have any fucking idea how to move along in traffic. She lounged in the sumptuous back seat, exhaling and trying to forget about bad Miami drivers.

  Bridge Road was clear all the way to the Star Island gate. Berto waved at the guard, who smiled back, and the gate arm lifted. A minute later, Berto backed the great, gleaming automobile expertly into Alicia's driveway.

  The island was meticulously landscaped and imposing, deliberately so, just what you might expect for one of the ritziest neighborhoods in all of South Florida. A couple of Alicia's Miami clients lived there. Gloria and Emilio Estefan had a home right down the street. All the houses were knockouts and Alicia's was no exception. Ten thousand square feet parked on more than an acre of land facing open water, it always drew gasps from first-time visitors. Hell, Alicia and Nick gasped when the realtor first showed it to them three years ago. They were planning on starting a family soon and they wanted the kids to have a decent place to live, to play, and above all, to be safe. The property was so spread out, it was the kind of place where you referred to the land surrounding the house as "the grounds".

  Berto guided the Bentley into its spot in the massive five-car garage. When Alicia opened the door from the garage, she stepped into the game room and saw Francesca making her way around the room in her two-year-old waddle-walk. Nick was sitting in a nearby chair, Francesca flapping her arms up and down in delight at this game she was playing with Daddy. Nick saw Alicia and got up. He immediately gathered her into his open arms.

  A couple of long kisses and big hugs, then he said, "How was Tampa?"

  Before she could answer, Francesca grabbed her thigh. "Mommy! You're home!"

  She bent down and picked the little girl up. "Yes I am! And I'm ready to give my little princess lots and lots of hugs and kisses!" The three of them hugged and kissed and laughed.

  Francesca did have her father's eyes, like Alicia said, and square chin. But she had her mother's outgoing personality, one of her biggest weapons in winning friends and influencing people. When you met Alicia López and she turned her charm on you, it didn't matter who you were — how jaded, how important, how dangerous — you gave in, even if only a little or if only briefly. You cut her just enough slack to let her get one up, if just for a few seconds. In Alicia's line of work, a few seconds is very often all she needs.

  "You hungry?" Nick said. They all walked into the kitchen, Francesca still tugging at her mother's pant leg.

  "No. I just had lunch with Desi Ramos. You remember him? You met him a few years ago, and then a couple of times after that. We grew up together. I told you all about him."

  "Oh yeah," he said. "I think I remember him." But it was clear to Alicia he did not.

  "How about you? Make any headway on your novel while I was gone?" Alicia opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. They took seats around the dinette table. Francesca remained standing, hugging her mother's leg.

  "In fact, I did," Nick said. "You know that little quagmire I was trapped in? You know, I couldn't get my central character to do what I wanted. I couldn't get him into that undercover meeting with the drug kingpin. But then an idea came to me and I tried it out and guess what? It worked. I have now officially broken through my writer's block."

  This was typical for Nick. He'd have a fantastic idea for a novel and jump into it headfirst. The characters all fell into place, the plot took off, everything was working. Then, invariably, somewhere around page 120, he would run straight into a concrete wall. A thick concrete wall. He'd thrash around a little, get disgusted, and talk about putting the book aside. But eventually, he always found a way out. He would finish the book and it would go on to be another in his lengthening shelf of crime fiction bestsellers.

  Of course, he had no idea how Alicia really earned her money. He thought she was involved in the exporting of computers and other electronic gear. Which, in a manner of speaking, she was. Just not the way he thought.

  He took her hand and held it on the tabletop. He said, "So how'd it go in Tampa?"

  "Well, it's Tampa
. What can I say? Where the fun never starts." They had a good chuckle, then she said, "Seriously, though. For an investment banking firm, the company's not bad. They've been around a long time, they've got knowledgeable people working there, and the guy who would be specifically assigned to our account is pretty bright, seems to be on top of things."

  "Why do I feel you're not thrilled?"

  "Well," she said, as if she were about to reveal nuclear secrets, "their approach is too conservative, too trapped in a single philosophy. They were talking about heavily entering the bond market, which would mean not much growth for our money, but it would yield a steady income and less in taxes when we cash out. I'm looking for a little more growth. I want our money to grow, to accumulate, you know? To be able to take care of Francesca."

  "So …"

  She took a long, cold pull at her water. "So I think we look for someone else. I only went to Tampa because I heard about these guys over there and how they do a great job. But there are a lot of the right people here in Miami. I know a few of them. We should find someone here. Someone who can meet our objectives better."

  Of course, this was all bullshit. Alicia spent yesterday and last night not in Tampa, but in her downtown Miami condo that Nick didn't know anything about, with the dazzling Brazilian hooker that he also didn't know anything about, thank God.

  She made these "overnight business trips" periodically, to satisfy her bisexual urges, and they were always supposedly to nearby cities. That was her perennial excuse for not taking their jet, which would "cost way too much" for such a short trip. Instead, she would tell him she was going by car. This attention to financial detail always pleased Nick, whose own skill in handling money was questionable. That was one reason he married her, her ability to organize money and make it grow.

  His own upbringing was very different from hers. He hailed from a prominent family in West Palm Beach who were very disappointed he became a writer after college instead of going for his MBA. Writing, however, was his true calling and it lit fires within him, had always done so. Alicia knew he couldn't betray himself, so he tackled writing with every ounce of his energy. And he made a good accounting of himself, racking up a chain of bestsellers and becoming an acclaimed, award-winning crime fiction author.

  They met in college, Alicia having secured a scholarship to the University of Miami. This was no small feat for a former drug dealer coming out of East Hialeah. But she liked learning, and as middle school segued into high school, she gradually drifted away from street dealing and the hopeless life it represented. She knew most of her girlhood friends would likely meet death at a relatively young age by one of only three ways: drug overdose, dying in prison, or from a bullet with their name on it. There was another way, a way out, and she knew education was the path.

  Due to her strong family ethics and discipline, she learned the value of a dollar and, growing up in poverty, it was hammered home that dollars were not to be wasted or thrown around like garbage. Nick shared this feeling, only she had proven herself far more adept at protecting their fortune. Even though he was a consistent best-selling author, her income exceeded his many times over.

  Because she insisted on taking the car to "Tampa" and other nearby cities for overnight "business trips", transport would be available for her to area restaurants and usually back to her downtown condo on the forty-third floor. Any local daytime dalliances could be covered without elaborate explanation. She was just "working". As long as she got home at a decent hour.

  But even though her story was bullshit, and even though she was ready with a far more detailed version had Nick pressed her to go deeper — she always had people ready in those other cities to corroborate her story — she truly was looking for a legitimate place to put their money so it might grow and provide a nice annuity for Francesca, and any other children they might have in the future. She had a battery of accounts in offshore banks that held a lot of her money, but her economic nerve center was Computer Superstore of the Americas.

  Located in Hialeah, CSA served as her headquarters from where she coordinated all her activities. Right now, she was placing her laundering commissions in Panamanian and Caribbean banks, but she wanted to start a trust for Francesca. That required a very visible, very legal financial structure, so that meant some of that clean money would have to be diverted from shell corporations into legitimate investments and not merely into foreign bank accounts, where it would gather dust, remaining essentially out of reach.

  This was not an unusual play for someone in Alicia's position. Aboveboard investments, the formation of trusts, estate planning — these were sometimes part of the playbook of a major money launderer. But she was a different kind of animal. Possessed of a quick mind and keen intuition, she was especially good at economics, so she'd given this a lot of thought. This would be her legacy.

  Legacy. Legacy.

  She'd seen how legacy mattered very little in the yang to her yin, the Miami drug trade. Hardly ever considered, truth be told. She thought about it now, about how it's probably the same no matter where you're doing that kind of business. Miami, Mexico, Colombia, wherever. There was a series of priorities you go through on your way to the top of the drug world. And the more she thought about it, the more she realized these priorities were chiseled in granite.

  For your average drug dealer, your first years in the business were all about the drugs themselves, acquiring them at the right price, knowing how to process them, building a clientele and ultimately, an organization. This took time, because you often had to develop new customers and Alicia knew from her clients' tribulations early in their careers how all-consuming that could be.

  When the drugs were firmly in place and the organization was humming, it then became all about piling up cash in obscene amounts. Counting it, banding it, protecting it, stashing it, laundering it, figuring out what to do with it, distributing an enormous percentage of it to your team, and another gigantic chunk to build a firewall of protection in the corrupt, dual worlds of law enforcement and politics.

  Then, once you had the cash, and it was appropriately handled, it became all about what you could buy with the cash: the mansion, the big cars, the jewelry, the Gulfstream, all the rest of it. This stuff was not only nice to have, it sent a message. An unmistakable message that you were to be taken very seriously. At that point, it seemed you had everything you could possibly want or need. But once you were properly tricked out, the cash and the goodies faded into the background, while power took center stage.

  The more money you made, the harder you found it to resist the alluring siren song of power. To someone high up in the corporate flow chart of the cocaine business, power was far more intoxicating than money. Anybody could make money. Any dickhead could go out and start selling coke, Alicia knew, and with a little get up and go, he could make a pretty good living out of it, maybe even a spectacular living. But the power … ah, there's the big leap.

  Having money all by itself doesn't give you power, regardless of what Tony Montana said.

  You have to use the money in the right way, know how to turn it loose and in what quantities, exactly who to give it to.

  You've got to speak the right words in juuuuust the perfect, reassuring tone of voice to the recipient, bringing him or her into the fold.

  You have to be able to instill fear and respect in people, all without trying, all without showing guns or talking tough.

  It's like a God-given talent, Alicia thought. Like playing a musical instrument or being able to paint at a world-class level or holding a huge crowd in the palm of your hand while you speak.

  But with the power comes that first hazy hint that someone is out there who intends to take all this away from you. You're so visible, so alone up there on the mountaintop, you're a big fucking target. A difficult target maybe, with the sun at your back, but the bullseye is on your chest.

  And this is where the subtle shift is made. Where it is no longer about the power, but all about rampant p
aranoia and revenge. For most of the top dogs, it starts out small. One of your guys compliments you on your new car, or tells you what a beautiful-looking watch you're wearing and how great it looks on you. Yeah, right. What he's really saying is how much he wants it. And wants everything else you have while he's at it. Maybe he's looking at you funny … that might be a sign! Then, maybe another one of your guys gets busted on some bullshit beef. You take care of it all right, but you can't help thinking he was set up by someone in your organization, someone who was hoping the cops would get your guy to start a snitch chain. And you know where that would end.

  Then you become more and more aware. And one day, you wake up and you know, I mean you absolutely know, there are people close to you who are scheming to move you out. To kill you. The question then becomes who. Which of your most trusted, closest associates wants to put a bullet in your ear? Or maybe in your back. This one? That one? Both of them? And how about other big guys like you throughout South Florida? Fort Lauderdale? West Palm? They're everywhere, and they'd love nothing better than to add your territory, and everything that comes with it, to their expanding map.

  Any mishap, any perceived insult, no matter how small, is taken as a direct frontal attack on your position. This absolutely requires action, retaliation. If you overreact, you're going to get a heavy response from the other side. And if you don't have your shit together and you go around killing anything that moves, like those fucking Juárez guajiros, you soon find yourself in a bloody war that will cartwheel out of control, a war in which tens of thousands of bodies pile up, murdered in unspeakable ways.

  That was the problem with being a drug dealer.

  Luckily, Alicia was able to sidestep this entire journey. As a money launderer, she only saw the dealers themselves on very rare occasion, usually socially, and then only the bigger big dealers, guys who never actually have drugs on their person. Her job is to launder their money, period. They — actually, a network of their bagmen — arrange for their cash to be delivered to her every week or so and it becomes her responsibility to get it out of the country into one of any number of offshore havens lined up for that purpose.