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

by Don Donovan

  He brought Desi through a locked door marked "Privada" into the back room. Three younger men and a young woman lounged around on couches drinking beer and watching music videos on television. Speaking in Spanish, he told the woman and two of the men to go to the front and keep an eye on things. The other one, the larger of the three, stayed behind. José turned off the TV.

  Desi looked around. Apart from the couches and the TV, there was an old metal desk cluttered with paperwork and a wooden swivel chair that must have been thirty or forty years old. A refrigerator, also from ancient times, occupied a slot next to some file cabinets. An enormous safe sat in one corner, and in the other was a fire exit.

  With unexpected strength and grace, José hefted the suitcase onto the desk, on top of the messy paperwork. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. After unzipping it, Desi saw white bricks wrapped in plastic. José threw a nod to the younger man who approached it, switchblade knife in hand.

  He cut a small slit in the plastic enveloping one of the bricks and extracted a little of the white powder inside onto the tip of his blade. With his other hand, he pulled a little vial of liquid from the pocket of his jeans. He dropped the powder into the liquid and shook it up. It turned the proper color, and he nodded at José.

  Within seconds, José produced a briefcase, just like Julio said. It was a nice one, Desi thought, made from black leather, like the last one, and like the last one, it had a four-digit combination lock. For a moment Desi wondered if they bought these briefcases in bulk, maybe getting a good price on them.

  He took the case from José, who also handed him an envelope, just like last time. He stuffed it into his pocket and reached to shake José's hand. José looked at it like it carried plague. Desi wasn't sure what to do, then he heard the shots.

  Loud shots, and plenty of them, all coming from the front. Screams, and more shots. José and the young man both drew weapons from waistband holsters under their shirts. Shoving past Desi, they ran to the door leading to the front, and yanked it open. As they began firing, Desi ran to the rear exit. He pushed it open, looking back in time to see José and the younger man fall backward, blood and brains exploding from the backs of their heads. Still holding the briefcase, Desi dashed outside into the alley, behind the restaurant and around the corner to the street, where he leaped aboard a bus as it was pulling away from the stop.

  22

  Desi Senior

  Hialeah, Florida

  Sunday, December 17, 1989

  9:45 PM

  THE BLUE MERCEDES WAS PARKED directly in front of the tired building that held the mattress store when Desi jumped off a city bus. Delgado exited the Mercedes as Desi frantically rushed toward him.

  Delgado grabbed his shoulders. "Desi. Hey, hey. Calmate, mi amigo. What's going on?"

  "Man, those guys … I don't know where they came from … they … the shots … the shots …"

  "Shots? What shots?" He threw a quick glance to the sidewalk and street. "No, wait. Come here." He guided Desi back to the Mercedes. They sat in the front seat. "Now take a deep breath and tell me what happened."

  Desi settled down fairly quickly and recounted the events to a shocked Delgado.

  "Did you see who they were?" Delgado asked.

  "No. I was in the back with José and another guy. They tested the coke and then the shooting started in the front. That young girl … she was killed, I'm sure. I heard her scream!"

  "Do you know how many of them there were?"

  "No."

  Delgado's voice lowered. "May I have the briefcase?"

  "Of course."

  Desi handed him the sleek case and Delgado swiftly spun the combination numbers. He clicked open the case and exhaled. Desi got a peek at the packets of hundred-dollar bills.

  "Did you get paid?" Delgado asked.

  "Yes," Desi said. "But I'm telling you, man, I got out of there by the skin of my balls, you know? I saw José and the other guy go down just as I was running out the back door. I even had to leave my car there. I'm sure they came into the back looking for the money."

  "I'm sure they did. And the coke, too," Delgado said. "But you got away. And that's all that counts right now."

  "Who did this, Julio? Who killed those men? Who was it wanted to kill me?"

  Delgado looked out onto the street. A little traffic, not much. A couple of pedestrians on the other side of the street. Most of the businesses were closed at this hour.

  He said, "Desi, have you ever heard of Griselda Blanco?"

  "Griselda … uh, no, I don't think so. Who is she?"

  "She is a Colombiana. She controls all the cocaine coming into Miami. She is in prison right now, but she is still in control of the business through her associates. Every gram of cocaine that comes into Miami. And eighty percent of all the cocaine that goes through here to the rest of the United States. Do you have any idea how much money that translates to?"

  Such figures were way beyond Desi's grasp. He shook his head.

  Delgado said, "It is in the billions. You understand? Billions. With a 'B'."

  "Was she behind this today?" Desi asked.

  "No. The animals who did this today were rivals of Griselda. She is La Madrina, the Godmother of all Miami, and these people want to take what she has worked hard to build for herself and for her organization. Somehow, they heard about this transaction and they went there to steal her cocaine and her money."

  "Her cocaine and …" Desi's jaw slowly dropped as the light bulb clicked on. "So you are … you …"

  "I work for her. That's right, Desi. And now, now that you have escaped with your life tonight, gracias a Diós, you work for her, too." He reached into the briefcase and pulled out a banded wad of cash. "Take this."

  "Wha — what … "

  "Take it. For risking your life. You have earned it. Call it — how do the Americans say? — hazardous duty pay." Delgado's small mouth formed a sincere smile.

  Slack-jawed, Desi took the money. He looked at it. A thick wad, all hundreds!

  "Now I — I work for … ¿Cómo se llama?"

  "Griselda," said Delgado. "Griselda Blanco."

  "Griselda Blanco," Desi repeated with a blank stare, as if memorizing it for a test later on.

  Delgado added, "Like I said, she is in prison right now, but she still runs her organization. Through her son and a couple of others."

  "How can I … work for her?" Desi said. "I am not in the drug business. I don't know anything about drugs. I don't know her son or anyone else."

  Delgado said, "You don't have to know anything about drugs. And you don't have to know her son. You only have to know me."

  "You?"

  "Yes, Desi. Me. You will be working with me. You've done a couple of little jobs and you've done very well, my friend. People are impressed with what you've done, and believe me, they will be very impressed with the way you handled yourself tonight."

  "People? Impressed?"

  "Yes, people. But don't worry about them. From now on, you and I will work together."

  Desi said, "But if I don't know anything about drugs, why would you want to work with me? What can I offer you?"

  "Wouldn't you like to work with me, mi amigo? Have we not become good friends?"

  "Well, yes, I guess so."

  "And," Delgado said, "don't you want to get even with those pendejos who almost killed you today? Almost robbed your children of a father? Your wife of a loving husband? Don't you feel the need to settle the score?"

  Desi turned and looked straight into Delgado's eyes. Through a tightening jaw, he said, "Sí, Julio. I feel it."

  "Then that will be our first project, Desi. We will cut off the balls of those who tried to take you from your family."

  "Yes," Desi said, "but —"

  "But nothing. I consider you un buen amigo, Desi. And I want to give you the chance to make a better life. A better life for yourself. And for your sweet wife and children."

  Desi didn't say anything. He rubbed a han
d on the leather console running between the front seats, then felt the leather dash.

  Delgado added, "And I mean a much better life. Getting out of this little apartment one day. Eventually into your own house."

  Three young Cuban men came across the street toward the car. Desi looked past Delgado at them. Typical street scum. The kind who give him shit on his bus for no reason at all. Not driving fast enough. Waiting too long at stoplights. Guys who think they're tough. These three, with their swaggering confidence, all three with headphones around their tattooed necks. Never worked a job in their lives, Desi thought. Probably not more than twenty-one, twenty-two years old, if that.

  Delgado, who was facing Desi, never saw them until they tapped on his driver's side window. It didn't startle him at all, and Desi caught it. The window slid downward about two inches.

  "You want something?" Delgado's voice was sandpaper covered with ice.

  One of them, the tallest one and obviously the leader, said, "Yeah, man. Tolls."

  "Tolls? What the fuck you talking about?"

  "This is our territory. Anybody come through here, you got to pay a toll." He looped his thumbs through his belt to show he meant business. He was, after all, The Toll Collector.

  "Fuck off," Delgado said, and rolled the window back up.

  A muffled "hey, motherfucker!" came through the Mercedes' soundproofing, followed by a thud on the door. The Toll Collector had kicked it. Delgado cursed and grabbed something out of the door boot, Desi couldn't see what, and flung the door open into The Toll Collector's face, rocking him backward. He tumbled to the sidewalk.

  The other two pulled knives, flicking the blades open almost in unison, as if they had rehearsed for this moment. They bent forward a little, coiling their bodies into attack position, just like they'd seen guys do on television. Desi jumped out of the passenger door and ran around to the other side. He saw Delgado held a steel pipe, about two feet long, and he swung it with deadly accuracy, disarming the two switchblade punks right away with sharp, painful blows to their knife hands. The Toll Collector had regained his feet and came at Delgado from behind. Desi shoulder-blocked him, sending him to the sidewalk. Before The Toll Collector could get up again, Desi was on him, punching his face, causing his head to snap back against the pavement. Blood squirted out from the back of his head and his mouth. Desi felt teeth loosen. He kept it up, while behind him, he heard the other two squealing in pain, no doubt from the blows Delgado was laying on them with his steel pipe. The Toll Collector lapsed into unconsciousness and moments later, everything was silent. A wino in ragged clothing had approached the scene a half a block away, but saw what he was walking into, then turned and scrammed in the opposite direction.

  Desi got to his feet and smiled at Delgado, looking at the three would-be big shots lying bloody on the sidewalk, letting out occasional light groans. A second later, Desi and Delgado's smiles became laughs.

  23

  Silvana

  Miami, Florida

  Sunday, April 8, 2012

  10:05 AM

  THE HOT SHOWER FELT GOOD. Something about this particular shower, the one in the gym, always invigorated Silvana, much more than her shower at home ever could. The water shot out like harsh needles against her hard, stout body. She always spent a few extra minutes luxuriating in its womblike comfort.

  Sunday morning was gym day for her. She went other days during the week, but it was always at odd hours, whenever she could cram it in. Sundays, however, she didn't have to work, thank God, so she arrived at 8 AM and was able to devote a couple of hours to her exercise regimen.

  Afterward, she dried off in front of a mirror, as she often did. She checked out her muscle areas that she worked on that day, trying to notice a difference, a new ripple here or there. Of course, such results were never visible so soon after a workout, but she liked looking at herself anyway. Her tattoos, especially. They showed the Cuban flag on one bicep and a slithering pit viper on the other.

  She was proud of her body, even though it was not at all what society would label as "feminine", but then neither was she. The feminine types were what she preferred as sex partners, but she never had too many of those. Her sex drive was low to begin with, and men were certainly way, way out of the picture.

  Long-term relationships had eluded her somehow. Women like herself were slowly coming out of the closet and often living openly as committed lesbian couples. She thought about it. Every once in a while, a woman would catch her eye, or rather, she would catch another woman's eye, and they might spend the night together, or even two nights, but it seldom reached beyond that. Sex was not high on her list of things to do. It was enjoyable, but not a priority. She had her work. And love? That was something in the movies.

  But her body did impress her. I've come a long way, she thought as she looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror. A long fucking way from my childhood, from Mariel, from my shithead father. A long way from la bolsa, the makeshift raft we came across on.

  And a very long way from Eleventh Avenue.

  24

  Silvana

  Hialeah, Florida

  1991-1997

  EAST ELEVENTH AVENUE IN HIALEAH literally ran along the other side of the tracks. The north-south rail line was the de facto dividing line between extreme eastern Hialeah and the western rim of the city of Miami. Crossings from one city to the other were limited to 17th Street to the south and Ninth Street even further south. To the north were more tracks just beyond 21st Street, these running east-west, further isolating the neighborhood from the rest of the city, painting it into a literal corner. Eleventh Avenue ran between 17th and 21st, a line of long, low industrial buildings where they made awnings and doors, where they packaged tape and textiles, where you found body shops, tire warehouses, and other such activities. These businesses were thoroughly mixed in with rundown houses and one-story strips of apartments, all of whose better days lay far back in the rear view mirror. There was a lot of dirt where grass should have been, and well-tended yards were not to be found, having long ago been surrendered to weeds and bits of trash.

  It was to this neighborhood that Silvana arrived in 1991 at the age of eleven, when she washed ashore on a raft in front of sunbathers at the ritzy Casa Marina Hotel in Key West following her harrowing journey from Cuba. Mostly by herself. As soon as the local authorities got to her, they fed her and gave her a change of clothing along with soothing words.

  Then they shipped her off to Miami.

  Her aunt, Teresa Del Valle, lived here in Hialeah, having arrived herself several years earlier in a similar fashion. When young Silvana turned up on her doorstep with nowhere else to go, Tía Teresa took her in. Teresa worked at the Hialeah Box Company, a little place down the dirty street that made cardboard boxes of all varieties, while Silvana stayed at home. She had told Silvana to watch a lot of television and learn English.

  "Eso es cómo se aprende," she said. That's how it's learned. She told Silvana, "Our people come here and watch American television to learn English. When you learn enough of it, I'll send you to school."

  Silvana took to the TV right away, and unlike many who come to the American shores, she learned English fairly rapidly. The commercials were her favorites, followed by cop shows, especially reruns of Miami Vice. There were no commercials on Cuban TV, and she found them strange in the beginning, but when her aunt explained their function to her, she got it and watched them eagerly.

  The cop shows, of course, were somewhat similar to the telenovelas of home, only in English. She learned a great deal from these, particularly the Miami Vice reruns, where occasional dialogue was delivered in Cuban Spanish, holding her interest. The actors were trained to speak clearly and, even though all the dialogue was not necessarily correct English, it was English that was commonly used. She heard many phrases in the street and in stores that she heard on cop shows. This was of great help to her in her attempt to master the language.

  At first, she had a thick ac
cent and misused verb tenses, common with newly-arrived immigrants, but she soon overcame those obstacles. By the time she was thirteen, she was fluent and her accent far less noticeable than even that of her aunt, who had been here much longer.

  Meanwhile, Teresa worked her job assembling cardboard boxes and enduring the groping of her male supervisors. She was not particularly pretty, but she had a body with big curves in all the right places, and this was her draw. After Silvana had been living there a while, maybe a year or two, Teresa told her the bosses would put their hands all over her and inside her clothing — right while she was working! — and every now and then, one or two of them would yank her off the job and bring her into the storeroom where they would bend her over a big crate of cardboard sections and pull her skirt up and her pants down. She often came home after work with a pronounced limp.

  Once in a while, Señor Lara, the jefe from the Miami office, was there, and he liked to smack her around while fucking her, giving her the occasional black eye. He was a fat man, she said, with meaty, powerful hands and always smelling of sweat and drugstore cologne. She told of sweat dripping off his thick mustache when he sucked hard on her nipples. When Silvana asked her why she continued to put up with it, she would always shrug and say, "No te preocupes, Silvanita." But Silvana did worry about it.

  A few months before her thirteenth birthday, Silvana had enough of a grasp on English so that she was finally able to go to school, where she found the work very easy, hardly challenging. The most difficult part was certain teachers — Cubans themselves, who didn't speak English very well, or spoke with a heavy accent — who were hard for her to understand. Sooner or later, though, she caught on to all of them and breezed through the curriculum each year.

  The school, however, was not designed for students like Silvana who were eager to learn. Rather, it catered to girls like Blanca Nuñez, who lived in a six-unit apartment building around the corner, across from a used tire shop on East Seventeenth Street, and whose mother worked there and needed someone to watch her daughter during the day.