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

by Don Donovan

  "You just want me to deliver a package to Kendall? Why can't you deliver it yourself?"

  "I will be busy, and just from the time we've spent together this week, I feel I can trust you to do this job. Can I trust you, mi amigo?

  Desi said, "Seguro que sí. You know you can."

  "Good. Do you want to do it? It pays two thousand dollars."

  Desi's upper body moved spasmodically and he nearly dropped his sandwich. As it was, a few of the toppings slid out from it onto his plate. He said, "Two thousand dollars?" Delgado nodded and Desi said, "How big is the package? And what is in it?"

  "It's in a small suitcase, like you might carry onto an airplane." He held his hands out to indicate the dimensions. "About this big."

  "What's in it?"

  "That's not something you should worry about. You should only be concerned with getting it to Kendall in one piece and delivering it to the proper person."

  Desi eyed Delgado carefully, but the man gave nothing away. His face froze. His hard eyes moved into Desi's. Desi inhaled deeply and said, "Is this … against the law?"

  Delgado reached over and patted Desi's forearm. "That's not something you should worry about either, hermano. Now will you do it? It's two thousand dollars cash. For you. Tomorrow."

  Even though this smelled of lawlessness and danger, two thousand dollars was more than he made in an entire month with the bus company. And Christmas was right around the corner. He could make his family very hap —

  Delgado said, "Please do this for me. Just this one time."

  "Okay," Desi said. "What do I have to do?"

  A wide grin spread across Delgado's face, wider than Desi thought possible for his tight facial muscles. "Muy bién, hermano. Muy bién. Come to this address tomorrow after work to pick up the package." He plucked someone else's business card from his wallet and jotted down an address on its back.

  "When do I get paid?"

  "Ha! Good question! You get the money when you deliver the package. Paid in full."

  Desi let loose with his own grin and they shook on it. The marching band concluded their show to grand applause.

  15

  Desi Senior

  Miami, Florida

  Monday, November 27, 1989

  5:35 PM

  TRAFFIC WAS UNUSUALLY HEAVY around the Central Bus Garage when Desi dropped off his bus after his shift. He attributed that to the just-ended Thanksgiving weekend with lots of people back at work, and as a result, the trip to the Little Havana address would have to be planned out differently in order to avoid being buried in traffic.

  West Flagler would be a lost cause at this hour, so he took Northwest Second Street out of downtown, eventually making his way up to Third Street. By doing this, stop signs confronted him at nearly every corner, but far fewer cars traveled this back way. It still took him a while, but at least he wasn't trapped in that damn downtown traffic!

  The house was an ordinary little number with nothing to recommend it. A one-story concrete block structure on Northwest 25th Court off Third Street, it looked to be maybe a one-bedroom, two at the very most. The type of place you would drive by — or, hell, even walk by — and never look at it, never know it was there. Bars on the door and windows, common for that area of Little Havana, told a story which Desi didn't want to think about. A dented-up black Honda of indeterminate age sat in the driveway.

  He pulled up to the house a little after six and parked directly in front. He opened the chain link gate and stepped up the single step of the concrete stoop. His double knock was answered almost immediately.

  A woman stood in the doorway and Desi was surprised. He expected to see Delgado, but he peered over her shoulder into the messy living room and saw no one else. She was about twenty-two or three, slim, and barefoot. A cheap cotton dress hung on her ailing frame without showing any curves. She peered at him through hooded eyes under tangled hair and her plain, unpainted face had no appeal whatsoever.

  She spoke in a tired Spanish. "What do you want?" Desi noticed a missing front tooth.

  "Vengo a recoger una maleta para Julio Delgado," he said.

  "Un momento." She walked away, shutting the door behind her. Desi looked around the neighborhood. No one in sight. No kids playing, nobody outside doing yard work, nobody washing their car, no sign of any human activity on this lovely Monday evening. No sounds. Not even any other traffic. Eerie. Despite the presence of houses all up and down the street, Desi wondered if anyone else actually lived around here. The sun, now lowering in the sky, cast long, dramatic shadows through what trees there were along the street and in the rough-hewn yards. Thin, rainless clouds drifted in from the west.

  The woman returned. She handed Desi a small suitcase. He noticed it had a lock inserted through its two zippers. She did this guardedly, passing it quickly to him so no one else would see it. Not that there was anyone around to watch.

  "Take it to the Holiday Inn. The one in Kendall, on 88th Street near 107th Avenue. Room 214."

  "Who do I give it to?" Desi asked.

  "Whoever answers the door!" she said, rolling her eyes.

  "Okay. Holiday Inn, 88th Street." She shut the door before he could repeat the room number. He was pretty sure it was 214.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Kendall is one of those sprawling suburbs that requires a big shopping mall as its badge of identity, its magnetic center where Kendallites converge. In fact, it had several — as if to emphasize its significance as a suburb — Dadeland and the Falls being two of the largest. You draw a straight line from one to the other and the Holiday Inn would fall right about in the middle. All the emblems of upscale suburbia surrounded the hotel: Bennigan's, Borders Books, Target, Steak & Ale … they were all there. Bustling with activity, Eighty-Eighth Street knifed its way through the economic heart of Kendall. No signs in Spanish. Desi felt ill at ease, his stomach gurgling. He was a very long way from Hialeah.

  He started wondering if he'd made the right call. This locked suitcase, which was not exceptionally heavy, undoubtedly contained something which, if he were caught with it, might well send him to prison for years. Delgado didn't come right out and say that, but he made it very plain nonetheless. Even though the day — now in twilight — was pleasant, with the temperature hovering around seventy-five degrees, sweat beaded on his forehead and the back of his neck. He wanted to scratch his balls, but here in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn, he didn't dare. Someone might see him. Someone might get suspicious. Who scratches his balls in a Holiday Inn parking lot? But hey, he's just a guy walking into a hotel with a suitcase, like a million other people. What's wrong with that? Who's going to stop him? And why would they want to?

  He pushed back the shock of hair that hung over his forehead and went inside. The two check-in stations at the front desk to the left were occupied by two good-sized parties of guests, the clerks assisting them. A nearby bellman readied his chrome pushcart for imminent luggage activity. Off to the right, the lounge was busy with happy hour customers. Desi forged ahead, swinging his suitcase as he moved straight for the elevator. One appeared instantly. He stepped in and pushed two.

  Room 214 was about halfway down the hall. When he was in front of it, he didn't dare hesitate. Someone might be waiting for him, looking through the peephole. Someone might come out of one of the other rooms and notice him just standing there. That would be pretty suspicious for sure. He knocked right away, trying to still his trembling hands.

  The door opened and a man stood there, saying nothing. He was in his forties, tall, about six-two and horribly thin under a navy blue silk shirt which looked about three sizes too big on him. His nose was wide, too wide for his face, and his cheekbones were high, but on him they only made his cheeks look sunken and unhealthy. He didn't look right at all. Desi wasn't sure if he was supposed to identify himself or if this was the right guy, or … He checked the room number again. 214. He untwisted his tongue and said, "Julio Delgado sent me."

  The man spoke in Cuban S
panish. "Is that it?" He pointed at the suitcase. Desi nodded and the man waved him into the room. Another man sat in a chair, eyes on everything. Desi barely noticed him. A TV station was broadcasting local news in Spanish. Another drug murder. The reporter breathlessly described the event in front of crime scene tape and a covered body in the street. It must have just happened.

  The tall man reached into his pants pocket and retrieved a small key. He took the suitcase from Desi, tried the key in the lock and it clicked open. A quick look inside revealed what he wanted to see, so he went over to his own suitcase spread open on one of the double beds and reached into the inside pocket of a folded sport jacket. Out came an envelope, which he handed to Desi. The feel and the thickness told Desi it contained money. The tall man then reached under the bed and slid out a briefcase. A nice one, Desi thought, made of black leather with a combination lock. He handed it to Desi.

  "What's this?" Desi said, feeling the weight.

  "Give it to Delgado." The man motioned toward the door. Their dance was over.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Desi walked out of the hotel with the briefcase, not knowing what to do. "Give it to Delgado" was not in the script. Why didn't Delgado tell me about this? Desi thought. Where am I supposed to give it to him? Pepe's? That house back in Little Havana with the woman? Where?

  This was not part of their goddamned deal. Desi got to his car and carefully placed the briefcase in the trunk, buttressing it with a few odd items of junk that were in there. He didn't want it sliding around or breaking or anything. And he certainly didn't want it where any cop might see it on a random license check.

  He fired up his engine and wondered if this was routine in the drug world, all this tight-lipped mystery and surprise briefcases. There was no question this was a drug deal by the way it all went down. He'd seen things like this many times on Miami Vice. But was this typical in real life? They give you a briefcase with God knows what inside it and you're just supposed to know what to do with it? The drugs might be inside the briefcase, not the suitcase! He broke a sweat, and thoughts came to him.

  Maybe I should just go to the cops and turn the thing over to them, tell them what happened, how I was just doing a favor for a guy and didn't know there were drugs involved. They might believe me.

  He could hear himself think these stupid thoughts and put them out of his mind right away. No, no cops, no ratting anybody out. He's got his two grand ¾ wait a minute. I never even counted it! Never even looked at it! Shit, how big a fucking idiot am I!

  The envelope lay beside him on the seat of his idling car. His hand wrapped around it. It still felt like money. He glanced inside and saw a bunch of hundred-dollar bills. He took them out and counted, twenty in all.

  Well, at least they didn't fuck me out of my money.

  On his way home, he was tempted to stop off at Toys R Us and spend some of this money on presents for Desi Junior and Sofía, but decided against it. Christmas would get here soon enough, and besides, he'd had a long day and wanted to get home to Marianela and the kids.

  Marianela! Should he tell her about his chance meeting with Delgado and the resulting money bonanza? Better not. She'd go into a big long lecture about the evils of drogas and narcotraficantes and swivel her hips while sliding her head from side to side the way only Cuban women can do while wagging an index finger at him the whole time. No, best to keep quiet on this one. When he buys the presents, he'll just tell her he'd been putting some money aside all year.

  It was a little before eight when he got home. Lights were on in all the second-floor apartments, his own above the mattress store, the rest above other lowly businesses that lined the street. Desi knew people were settling in to watch Monday Night Football. As he guided his car into an available space a couple of doors down, he noticed a parked car across the street and someone stepping out of it. A blue Mercedes. Delgado.

  Desi got out of his own car and froze. Delgado came up to him quickly.

  "How did it go?" he said.

  "Fine," Desi said. "Everything went fine."

  "You brought the package to the Holiday Inn?"

  "Yes. Everything went fine."

  "He gave you … a briefcase?"

  Desi finally moved. "Oh … yes. It's in the trunk." And he stepped around Delgado to the rear of the car. He opened the trunk and handed him the briefcase. Delgado spun the combination lock to the proper numbers and the case snapped open. He peeked inside and smiled.

  "Did you get your money?" he asked.

  "I did," Desi said with a smile.

  "Buen trabajo, Desi. Muy buen trabajo."

  "You didn't tell me about the briefcase," Desi said.

  "No, I didn't. But you handled it, didn't you? You did the right thing, bringing it back here. Like I said, mi amigo, good job." He patted Desi on the shoulder, a sincere pat. Desi liked it.

  "I'll see you at Pepe's," Desi said.

  Delgado smiled. "Oh, yes. That is for sure." He reached his arms around Desi and Desi returned the hug. He felt Delgado's gratitude and an enthusiasm he didn't expect. Then their eyes met and Desi felt a door opening somewhere deep in this embrace.

  16

  Desi Junior

  North Miami, Florida

  Friday, April 6, 2012

  10:25 PM

  DESI RAMOS JUNIOR DROVE DOWN 128TH STREET with his lights off. He turned his Escalade around and parked it in a lot next to a small vacant building bearing a "FOR RENT" sign over its doorway across the street from the lumber yard. He pointed the vehicle outward so that he faced the yard's rear area.

  Darkness enveloped the silent street. He sat there for a moment, checking it all out. Other than routine traffic on I-95, there was no activity either on the street or in front of him in the big space behind the lumber yard. It worried him to have to park across the street from the fence, because it meant more exposure getting back to his car after the action. It would be much easier to park alongside the fence itself, but he couldn't risk having his car spotted by Bebop, who no doubt would be alert to anything out of the ordinary. Desi was fairly certain Bebop had scouted the area before agreeing to meet here, and in doing so had noticed no reason for a vehicle to park beside the chain link fence. If one showed up in the glare of Bebop's headlights as he maneuvered around the rear of the lumber yard, he would almost certainly become suspicious.

  Quietly, he slipped out of the Escalade, Kleins in hand. He made short work of the chain link fence, cutting a three-foot by three-foot hole near to the building itself, enabling him to comfortably crawl through. After replacing the cutters, he pulled a black case out of the Escalade's boot and opened it.

  The neatly-arranged components of a Huldra Mark IV stared up at him out of the velvet interior. An excellent tactical weapon, relatively small, fairly quiet, low recoil. It was accurate up to more than a hundred yards, but the target would be a lot closer than that. He assembled the rifle, mounting the scope last.

  He bought the rifle right after having lunch with Alicia the other day. Then he went directly to a shooting range out in West Miami-Dade to practice using it.

  He remembered his father's words from years ago. Always practice with a new gun if you have the time. Practice for hours every day for as many days as you can before you have to use it. You don't want to fumble with it the moment you need it. You want it to feel secure in your hands, ready to do exactly what you want it to do. And then Desi remembered the warning, And don't spend too long practicing at any one gun range. You don't want to attract anyone's attention, make them wonder why you're there for so many hours. You want to blend in just like everyone else. Shoot a few clips and then move on to the next range.

  So he shot forty or fifty rounds, then headed up to more ranges in Broward and Palm Beach counties. Big ranges, where there was less of a chance his Mark IV would stand out. A small range, you basically have guys (and girls) coming in with their .38s and nines and whatnot looking to blow off steam. A sniper rifle, and its owner's description, would
sear itself into the memory of the manager of such a range. After two days of anonymity at the big ranges in South Florida, Desi felt comfortable with his weapon.

  He crossed the street and crawled through the fence.

  The carelessly-stacked cinderblocks a couple of yards inside the fence gave him the cover he needed. One stack to his left, about three feet high and six feet long, ran parallel to I-95, providing shelter from passing motorists, not that any of them would ever look over in that direction. Another stack in front of him was about four feet high, hiding him from anyone in the large area behind the building where the deal was set to go down. He loaded his magazine and attached it to his weapon. Then he sat back to wait.

  He looked behind him. No activity on the short street or in the vicinity of the vacant building where he parked. The only motion was the droning of passing traffic on I-95 on his left. The thick, moist night air kept the temperature hovering around eighty degrees. No breeze, no clouds, only a fingernail-shaped moon peeked out of the sky. A line of sweat formed on Desi's forehead and under his arms.

  It wasn't long before headlights swung around the rear area entrance at the far end. Desi peered over the cinderblocks and caught the car coming into the area. It slowed and turned around to face the entrance at a point about forty yards away from his nest. As the car wheeled around into position, he made it to be a BMW, one of the really big ones, black or maybe dark blue. The car rolled to a stop, facing away from Desi, leaving its headlights shining toward the entrance. No one got out. Traffic sped by on I-95 not thirty yards away, but nobody passing noticed the car in this godforsaken lot behind a nondescript building.

  A few minutes later, Desi saw stirring at the other end. More headlights came into view, making the turn into the rear area of the lumber yard. They pulled closer to the BMW and stopped a short distance from it, maybe ten or fifteen yards, pointing itself directly at it. Desi couldn't tell if the new car was a Land Rover because of the headlight glare, but it was definitely not a normal car, more a squarish Rover-type of vehicle, maybe an SUV. Desi raised his weapon. He set it against his shoulder atop the stack of cinderblocks, then looked through the scope to make the necessary adjustments. He tried wiping the sweat away, but there was more right behind it. All his skin around his head itched — his neck, his nose, right under his eyes.