by Don Donovan
"A text from the guy," he said. "I've gotta go out for a few minutes."
"Out? Out? What for? Why can't you stay here? We were having such a good time." She wrapped an arm around his shoulder.
He turned to face her. "Look, Toni. I've got some good news and some bad news. The bad news is, we're not going to be able stay here in Florida. We'll have to take the first plane out in the morning back to New York."
"We can't stay?" Her voice bordered on whining, but not quite. "What's wrong? You promised."
"I know, I know," he said. "I promised. But it can't happen. But don't you want to hear the good news?"
Her head rolled a little before dropping in frustration. "All right," she said. "Tell me the … good news."
He shifted his voice into upbeat levels. "The good news is, you're going to make some money for your trouble. For coming down here with me."
"Money? What are you … what do you mean, money?"
"I mean, you're going to make money. Just for taking this trip with me. You're getting paid a thousand dollars."
She gasped. "Wha — wha —" Her jaw dropped and her mouth remained wide open.
"That's right," Josh said. "We're getting a thousand dollars apiece, and I'm going to pick it up now."
She managed to close her mouth but then gulped. "You're going now? To pick up two thousand dollars?"
"Right now. I'll be back in a half-hour. Maybe less."
As it all sunk in and she realized she was a thousand dollars richer, a smile spread out over her face. "Oh, my God! A thousand dollars. Somebody actually paid us money to take that car down here? Oh, Josh b'gosh, that's just wonderful! I can't believe it!"
"Not only that," he said, "but he's going to want us to do it again in the future. Sometime soon."
"You mean we get to do it again? Oh, it was such fun!"
"Maybe a bunch of times more," he said. He turned on his big smile. "You in, darlin'?"
"Well! I guess I better be, hadn't I! We had such a fun trip and now, to get paid a thousand dollars! Oh, I am so in."
He lightly pinched her little chin. "Don't you go away, little girl. I'll be back before you know it. And we've … still got tonight, hm? To celebrate?"
She swooned.
As he walked out the door, he decided he would fuck her tonight to seal the deal.
20
Alicia
Hialeah, Florida
Sunday, April 8, 2012
6:10 AM
COMPUTER SUPERSTORE OF THE AMERICAS presented a darkened front to the cool pre-dawn street. In the back room, however, where computers were packaged for delivery, a group of overhead LED lights burned. No hint of any light made it to the outside through the sole rear window covered with blackout tape.
The room was large, about thirty feet wide by forty feet deep, two of its walls covered by rows of stacked, unwrapped boxes of computers and other equipment recently delivered from various manufacturers. They were the cheap kind, desktops all of them, the bigger and bulkier the better, meant for third world countries, ghetto schools, and other such markets. No Apple stuff here. No sleek laptops, no iPhones, no tablets.
The legitimate side of Alicia's business shipped these down-market items to the Free Zone in Colón, Panamá, an enormous, bustling arena of free trade and cheap goods. The ultimate destination for these machines was Latin America, principally Colombia and Ecuador. The stores in those countries had people in Colón greasing the right palms to allow them to spirit the computers out of the Free Zone and onto waiting boats, which would land on Colombian shores and be unloaded in the dark of night. This allowed them to leapfrog local Customs duties and import tariffs, which were invariably prohibitive.
Alicia made a point of making periodic donations of equipment to worthy local recipients. Selected libraries, schools, and other institutions received computers, monitors, printers, and other such items every year or so. She also gave generously to socially-active civic and fraternal organizations who would in turn redistribute the items to needy individuals and groups.
Her gifts were made with some fanfare, noted in the media —not with too big a splash, rather a modest local-section article in the Miami Herald or an end-of-newscast piece on the five o'clock news on one of the local stations. These low-key good works went a long way toward diverting prying, suspicious eyes from her operation. In fact, Alicia was somewhat well-known as a good-hearted Cuban-American businesswoman who had succeeded due to her own hard work and now made it a point to give back to the community which had supported her. Various organizations — the Miami-Dade Public Library System, the Rotary, the County School Board — had given her plaques and certificates of appreciation which now hung on the wall of CSA's showroom for all to see.
Two very long, wooden tables stretched parallel to each other across the center of the back room. Up against one wall was a large, heavy-gauge, empty cardboard box, one of many such boxes custom-made for CSA by the Hialeah Box Company. On one of the long tables sat a dozen desktop computers, unboxed, lined up one next to the other, opened up with their covers off and resting behind them. There was about three feet of space left on the end of the table. On the floor beneath the table were the original shipping boxes for each computer. On the other table sat the motherboards, hard drives, CPUs, and most of the other components that made up the guts of these machines. The power supplies remained inside in case a curious Customs official somewhere wanted to turn the unit on to make sure it "really was a computer".
Yesterday afternoon, Alicia ordered an early closing. The store employees went home at four o'clock and were happy to do so. She immediately got to work on disassembling the computers and arranging everything just so for her task this morning.
She wanted to get home at a decent hour yesterday. Too many nights lately she'd been working late or in "Tampa" or somewhere and she really wanted to spend some time with Nick and Francesca. Plus, she knew the New York mule was due to arrive sometime last night, and that required her absence from home yet again.
Now, after pouring herself a cup of coffee, she pulled her hair back into a pony tail and hoisted the first of the suitcases onto the empty space at the end of the table, the one that held the computer shells. Right next to it was a powered screw driver attached to an extra long extension cord running the length of the table underneath. The four mates to the suitcase remained upright on the concrete floor.
The silence in the room was always overpowering for Alicia at this precise point in the process. She stood still and took it all in. This was where she was at her most vulnerable, where she would be defenseless against any kind of law enforcement incursion. And where she would be totally fucked. Without moving a muscle, she opened her ears and heard not a single sound, not even from outside. At this hour, in this warehouse/retail district, no real activity would begin for another hour or so. She listened carefully for any kind of sound, something she habitually did on these early morning tasks, listened for anything that would tell her she was not alone, any light creak in the settling of the building, any rapid rodent footsteps across the bare ceiling beams. Sometimes she heard these things, but this morning? Nothing.
She flipped on the air conditioning. With the familiar whirring in the background, she pulled a swivel chair up to the table and got to work.
Setting her coffee cup toward the far edge of the table, she unzipped the first suitcase.
The money very nearly overflowed to the floor, it was so full. It was banded, all of it, in ten-thousand dollar packets, amounting to over a million dollars in that one bag. She paused to look at it, momentarily unable to stop gazing at it, listened again for any sounds, and started unpacking.
She stuffed stacks of cash into the first computer. When that one was full, she bolted the cover back on it and rolled her chair down the line to the next one. She filled that one up, put it back together, and so on all the way down the line until the computers were full. When the last carry-on bag had been emptied and the last dollar had bee
n stored and the cover replaced on the final computer, she sat back and let out a loud exhale.
She then set about the process of boxing up each computer. A handheld tape dispenser sealed the boxes. Once sealed, she placed each box in the large, empty cardboard container over against the wall. Three layers of four computers each with just enough room for bubble wrap at the bottom and all around the inside perimeter. Significant room remained at the top. Room for four fully-functioning computers, placed there in the event an overzealous Customs agent wanted to open up one of the boxes and thoroughly inspect the item inside.
She checked her watch. The store would open in less than an hour, and her people would seal the big box, now delivery-ready and marked "For Export Only", then load it into an oversized van for the trip to the airport, where it would be transferred aboard a big, yellow DHL cargo plane bound for Panamá.
21
Desi Senior
Hialeah, Florida
Sunday, December 17, 1989
4:00 PM
WITH HIS EYES GLUED TO THE TV, Desi let loose a string of loud curses in Spanish while waving his arms frantically. Marianela rushed into the living room from the kitchen
"Desi, what is the matter? Are you all right?"
"Did you see that?" he cried.
"See what?" She looked around the room and saw only the room, everything in place.
"The goddamned Colts just scored a touchdown!"
"That's it? Some team scores in football and you get all that upset?" Desi did like his football, but never to the point of hysteria and this kind of hostile outburst.
"Look!" He pointed to the screen. "The Dolphins were leading and now they're blowing it!"
"I don't understand. What's wrong with that?"
"We need to win this game to make the playoffs! If we lose, the season is all over." He huffed and puffed while Marianela sat him back down on the couch and tried to soothe him. In a few minutes, he calmed down and took the measure of his surroundings. Fortunately, the kids were out playing and didn't witness his tantrum. He never liked to set a bad example for them. Didn't think it was right for a parent to do that.
Kids have to grow up in a home where violence is not part of your everyday life, he thought. Look what happens in the homes where you've got violence. You've got out-of-control kids, looking down a long, dark road toward prison and early death.
Just as his blood pressure returned to normal, the doorbell rang. Marianela answered it. Desi couldn't see who was at the door, but he saw her and heard her say, "Yes?"
"Are you Señora Ramos?" Desi recognized Delgado's scratchy voice. He leaped up from the couch.
"Julio! Please come in." He eased Marianela aside to allow Delgado to enter and he introduced them to each other. Delgado carried an armload of wrapped presents.
He said, "Desi, I just stopped by for a moment to deliver these to you and your family. I hope I got everything right. You did tell me you had a young son and daughter, no?"
"Oh, Julio. You shouldn't have done this. This is too kind. We didn't —"
Delgado shushed him. "Do not worry, my friend. Please let me do this for you and your family. Put the presents under the tree." He gestured toward the undersized Christmas tree, modestly decorated.
Marianela gushed her thanks and arranged the presents just so. Desi said, "Thank you so much. But I feel very badly. We didn't get you anything."
"I said not to worry. There is always next year. But … before I go, may I see you outside for a moment?"
"Of course." He turned his head back. "Honey, Julio and I are going to speak outside for a minute."
They stepped out the door and down the stairs to the first floor and outside. There in front of the mattress store, Delgado said, "Would you like to do another little job for me, mi amigo?"
"Another job?"
"Yes." Delgado's eyes lost all warmth. So did his voice. "Tonight."
"Tonight?" Desi's tone was not accommodating.
Delgado said, "Tonight. It will take you about an hour and a half, two hours maximum. This one pays three thousand dollars. Will you do it for me?"
"Three thous — tonight?"
"Yes, tonight."
"Wh-what do I have to do?" Desi said.
"You remember from last time, that house in Little Havana? You just go there and pick up another package. Take it to the address they give you. That's it."
"Will they give me another briefcase to give to you? Like last time?"
Delgado said, "Yes. And just like last time, you bring it here. I'll be waiting. They will pay you, too. The whole thing won't take any time at all, and you get home in time to watch Trapper John."
"Well … okay," Desi said, managing a smile. He felt pretty good about being asked to perform another task for his friend Julio Cesar Delgado. And for three thousand dollars!
"Good, good. Now, somewhere around seven-thirty, seven forty-five, you get in your car and drive to that house, you remember it? On Northwest 25th Court?" Desi nodded. Delgado said, "Be there at eight o'clock tonight to pick up the package."
"Where will I be taking it?"
"Hialeah. They'll give you the address."
≈ ≈ ≈
Desi wended his way through the dark streets of Little Havana. The sun had been down for a couple of hours, but the heat stayed behind. The mercury hovered around eighty degrees with high humidity. The AC in Desi's car, not great to begin with, worked overtime, huffing and puffing, but the car had been out in the sun all day and the heat had built up inside to the point where it refused to cool down. Covered with perspiration, Desi finally pulled up to the drab house on 25th Court.
Nothing much had changed since his last visit. Empty street, void of all activity, street lights not doing much in the way of lighting anything. Same beat-to-shit white Honda in the driveway, everything pretty much the same. Only this time a man answered the door.
He was big, black, bald, and menacing. He wore a tank top with a picture of what looked like a lethal automatic rifle on it, and the words "Ghetto Blaster" underneath it. The garment stretched itself around very large, very hard biceps. Tattoos covered most of his arms and one slunk up around his neck. A permanent frown had etched itself between his eyebrows, and his cold eyes shined like little dark ball bearings, almost disappearing in his deep-set, squinty gaze.
Desi said, "I'm here to pick up a package."
"Who the fuck are you?" he asked in a growly, heavily-accented voice.
"I'm Desi. Julio sent me. I'm here to pick up a package." He immediately regretted giving his name. Something told him that wasn't a good idea. Guys on TV, when they do these kinds of drug deals or whatever, they don't go around telling everyone their real names.
They all have those street names, don't they, like Iceman or Pookie or … or …
"Wait here," Ghetto Blaster said. In about thirty seconds he returned with a black suitcase, like last time, only this suitcase was larger than the last one, also with a lock connecting the two zippers. "Take it to de corner of East Fourt' Avenue and East 40th Street in Hialeah. There's a pawn shop there. Ace Pawn. Bring it in. See José behind de window, Cuban guy. Tell him you got some'ting from Delgado. You got dat, mahn?"
Desi repeated the bullet points. "I got it."
With very little effort, Ghetto Blaster hoisted up the suitcase and shoved it into Desi's chest, staggering him backward. "You better. Don't fuck it up." The door slammed in Desi's face.
The suitcase was considerably heavier than the little one he'd brought to the Kendall Holiday Inn. He lugged it to his car and managed to get it in the trunk. Off he went to Hialeah.
Before long, he arrived at the corner of Fourth Avenue and 40th Street in Hialeah, what looked like a small commercial center for the surrounding neighborhood. He saw the pawn shop right away, precisely on the corner, standing alone. A few yards away, a Cuban restaurant hummed with activity. Beyond that, a small gym. The lot was filled with the cars of restaurant customers and late-shift gym rats,
forcing Desi to park some distance away.
He stood at the trunk of his car, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. His hand shook slightly and he looked at it, like it was not even his own but some recent transplant, or maybe even someone else's trembling hand. He knew he was in too deep to back out. He couldn't just go back home and give Delgado the suitcase, telling him it was over, that he didn't want any more of this life-of-crime stuff. He'd seen what happens to those guys on Miami Vice. They had it all for a while, and then they wound up choking on their own blood.
But that was TV. And he was Desi Ramos Senior. He got hold of himself and opened the trunk.
Grumbling, he jerked the suitcase out, carried it across the lot through the alluring aroma of yellow rice and black beans, and brought it inside Ace Pawn.
The place had that kind of depressing pawn shop feel to it, sad and homely, filled with other people's broken dreams, items that once meant something to them — maybe even their most treasured of all possessions — until they needed ready cash for God knows what. Now these once-valued items sat on dreary walls and in smudged glass cases, musty and forgotten … guitars, TV sets, cassette players, all kinds of jewelry …
Desi approached the man behind the bulletproof window. Somewhere in his forties, he stood tall, about six-four, and painfully thin. Hair parted in the middle drooped down the sides of his head and his eyes were too big for his drawn face. A hawk nose provided all the angles his face needed, but he still had high, jutting cheekbones and a pointed jaw. He appeared to be Cuban. He was jotting something down with a very sharp pencil.
"José?" Desi said, setting the suitcase on the floor. His arm suddenly ached from carrying it around so he flapped it around a couple of times to shake off the tightness.
The man put down his pencil and nodded. "Sí. ¿Qué desea?"
"I've got something from Delgado." He pointed to the suitcase standing next to him on the floor.
José leaned toward the glass for a better look. He saw the case and said, "Come with me."
