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

by Don Donovan

  "Alicia," he said with a grin, sitting opposite. "How's it going?"

  "How's it going? How's it going? I'll tell you how it's going. Pretty fucking badly. That's how it's going."

  "Wha — what's —"

  She said in a voice barely above a whisper, "I give you information to clip that fucking Bebop and you turn it into a bloodbath. Like you just walked onto the fucking set of Scarface. Bang! Bang! Ba-boom! Kill every motherfucker in sight!"

  "Alicia, I didn't —"

  "Kill everything that moves!" She went into her Al Pacino impersonation. "I bury those cock-a-roaches!"

  "Hey, you gotta listen. I —"

  "Shut up!" She downticked her voice another couple of levels. "You know what you did? Do you have any fucking idea what you did?"

  "I — I smoked Bebop. For killing my Dad all those years ago."

  "Yeah," Alicia said. "And you know who else you smoked?"

  "Th-the girl and the doorman. So what?"

  "The girl." She sipped her water, more to keep from blowing an artery than from thirst. "The girl was Maxie Méndez's daughter. La luz de su vida."

  "Maxie Méndez's …"

  "Yeah. You stupid fuck. Maxie Méndez's daughter. You know what that means?"

  "Listen, hermana, I had no idea. How was I supposed to know who she was? She just looked like some slut that was hanging on to Bebop, you know? Man, I had no idea."

  "You had no idea. You know what this means, cabrón? It means Méndez will stop at nothing to find whoever did this. He will dedicate the rest of his life to hunting you down."

  "I can keep —"

  "Shut up!" she said. "A lot of people are gonna get clipped over this. You realize that? Maybe even some of my people. Some of my good people. They might die because you were so fucking careless. Because you thought you were just wasting some slut!" She picked up her cell phone and brandished it like a weapon. "I got a mind to call Méndez right now and give you up. And then tell him where to find you. Save him a lot of fucking trouble! And save a few lives while I'm at it!"

  "Alicia," Desi said, fear spreading over his face. "Hey, you can't do that. I trailed Bebop from that club in North Miami to that apartment building. It was right, I'm tellin' you. There was nobody around. Nobody can make me for it, believe me."

  "I don't fucking believe you. You're an impulsive fuck! You could've staked him out and taken him when he was alone, or at least with his driver."

  "I'm telling you, he was never alone. You gotta believe that. I waited outside the club, then followed him down to Little Haiti. I watched him shoot some guy there. Right on the fucking street! And then he got back in his car and they went over to the apartment building. He was never alone."

  "So you wait. You take him the next day. Or the day after that. You wait! I swear, I ought to call Méndez right this minute."

  "No, no! Don't do that! Please. Alicia." Desi only now sensing the depth of the shit he'd stepped in. "Please."

  She set the phone on the table. "Let me tell you something. If Maxie Méndez comes sniffing around me or my organization, making trouble for me, I will personally drive him to your fucking house and walk him to your front door. ¿Me entendés?"

  "Sí, sí, te entiendo," Desi said in a choking voice, head down.

  The clouds had made their way down Collins and the first few drops of rain fell, thick, heavy drops. Alicia looked up at the blackening sky, felt the breeze, signaled Berto for the car.

  She thought, I don't know if I can really rat Desi out. He's like my brother. He fucked up bad, sure, but I don't know if I can actually give him up.

  Either way, this is gonna be one hell of a storm.

  38

  Desi Junior

  Hialeah, Florida

  Friday, April 13, 2012

  10:30 AM

  DESI WALKED TO HIS CAR TWO BLOCKS AWAY. He'd never heard Alicia talk that way to anyone before — well, not since middle school, anyway, during her days as a drug dealer. And she had never, ever talked like that to him. It just wasn't part of their deal. They had this understanding, born of more than twenty years of friendship, an unspoken rule such as the kind that exists between a real brother and sister, a love born out of deep mutual respect.

  Normally, Desi would be upset at her treating him like that, but he knew he had stepped way over the line. Not with missing Bebop the other night during the drug deal, that could be explained — even forgiven. And he had the clear sense she had forgiven him for that. The way it went down, it could've happened to anybody. It was just a case of really bad timing, that woman turning to hug Bebop at the precise moment Desi's finger squeezed the trigger.

  But killing Bebop with Maxie Méndez's daughter as collateral damage, that was utterly unacceptable. All of Alicia's cursing and threats … those were coming from a place so deep inside her he never knew it existed. It scared him, it really did, and not much could scare him.

  He had driven to North Miami the other night and hung around that Jamaican nightclub, knowing full well he might never see the sun again. But he wasn't afraid and he didn't care. He didn't care because Bebop had gunned down his father, Desi Senior, and revenge needed to be served up.

  He started his car and headed for home, but now, after hearing Alicia make dark, full-bodied threats against him, he was plenty scared.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  He loved his little house on West 30th Street in Hialeah. Not that there was anything flashy about it, he really wasn't a flashy kind of guy. It was only about a thousand square feet, and had a small yard, but at least it was a yard. Many places on this street had only pavement where yards ought to be, allowing off-street parking. Desi was fortunate enough to have real grass hemmed in by a chain link fence, and a driveway leading to a carport, so his Escalade wouldn't just sit out there baking in the subtropical sun. He hated looking at these Miami cars where the paint had oxidized from sitting in the sun. It mystified him why people didn't take better care of their cars, why they let them go to shit like that.

  In the five years he'd lived in this house, he enjoyed every single day of it. He knew those three rooms over the mattress store were only a couple of bad breaks away, that he could easily wind up in a similar place if he wasn't careful, so he did everything he could to keep his past at bay and to ensure his future.

  As soon as he got back from his meeting with Alicia, he stumbled into the shower. The moment he got himself lathered up, his phone rang again.

  Damn it, he thought. What the fuck does she want now? She gonna dump on me some more? I got the fucking idea already!

  It was Wilfredo, one of his boys who works the territory, doing Desi's business around the Mall of the Americas and a couple of fringe areas of the airport.

  "Yo, Wili, what's up?" Desi said, standing naked with his cell phone in his hand.

  "Listen, man," Wilfredo said. "A lotta shit's been comin' down."

  "What shit? Whatchu talkin' about?"

  "Word's out, man, that you smoked that Jamaican dude the other night. The one they call Bebop."

  "Who's been spreadin' that shit, man? That ain't real."

  Wilfredo said, "Them Jamaicans, man, they think it's real. They think that nigger was the second fucking coming of, I don't know, Bob Marley or somebody. They all plenty hot that he got clipped in his own fuckin' doorway. Every fucking Jamaican in North Miami is all stirred up now, thinking you did it, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  "I ask you again, man, who's spreadin' this shit?"

  "I don't know, man. But one of my homies, this dude Flaco, he high up in Maxie Méndez's organization, you know? He's Cuban but he's black, too, like me, and he got Jamaican friends, you know what I'm sayin'? I just now saw him down at the 305 pool hall. They been tellin' him they hear this Cuban guy Desi from Hialeah was the one that done Bebop."

  Desi still couldn't believe this. "Where they gettin' this shit, man?"

  Wilfredo paused, then said, "According to Flaco, it was this dude Ansel Taylor. He was Bebop's driver.
Say he saw a red Escalade in his rear view followin' him and Bebop all over fuckin' town the other night, you know what I'm sayin'? Say he saw the Escalade pull into the entrance of Bebop's condo building right after he pull in himself. Made a coupla phone calls this morning, ran a check, traced the car to you."

  "Okay, man," Desi said. "Thanks for the heads-up."

  He swiped the call off and skipped the shower. He threw on some clothes and packed a few things immediately. Reaching for a hammer, he smashed his cell phone to bits. Back in his bedroom, he reached up onto the top shelf of his closet, way back, and pulled out his stash of thirty grand in cash, along with two dozen prepaid no-contract phones, which he tossed into his bag.

  Out the door and into his other car, a black four-year-old Nissan, which he kept parked on the street, baking in the sun. He wanted it to look used, like nobody would ever notice it.

  He knew he should've taken that one Saturday night. Black car, would've blended into the night. Invisible, right?. Why the fuck didn't he? What the fuck was he thinking? What, did he want to impress Bebop with his cool fucking Escalade before he blew him away? Did he want to show him it was the same kind of car his father had when Bebop blew him away?

  Fucking stupid is what it was. Stupid!

  He headed for an apartment he kept in a rough part of West Hollywood. He'd been renting this place for about four years now. It was just a one-bedroom in a shabby fourplex on Garfield Street, a lonely, pathetic piece of pavement in the noisy shadow of the Turnpike. His income could stand the strain of keeping two places, especially when one of them was as cheap as this one. And besides, if he ever got into a jam like the one he was in now and didn't have this little hideaway, he wouldn't have any need for living expenses.

  The place was musty from not having been lived in for nearly a year. The last time was when Desi took a couple of hookers there for an all-night party. Cost him nearly two grand, but at least they didn't find out where he really lived. He was fanatical about that, about not having people know exactly where he lived. Just one of the security measures he learned from his Dad.

  He stepped inside and turned on the AC right away. The place was boiling. He checked the fridge. Only a few beers left from last year's hooker party. The nearest commercial area where he could pick up some food and drink was State Road 7, a few blocks away, and that great Cuban restaurant was there, too. The Las Vegas. And they delivered! Better make one trip to the store now, he thought, and load up for a long stretch.

  Going to and from the supermarket, he didn't see anything suspicious. No tails he could spot, nobody looking as though they noticed him. He quickly made the rounds of the supermarket aisles and zipped through the checkout, paying cash. Back in his apartment, he called Wilfredo.

  "Wili, listen, it's me. I need you to take care of business for the next week or so. Maybe longer. ¿Se puede?"

  Wilfredo said, "Of course, man. What do you need me to do?"

  "Make your usual stops, then take care of my stops at Dolphin Mall and those areas around the airport that you don't normally do. Also, my little three-block area in Miami Springs, you know the spot?"

  "Yeah, I know it. I got you covered, man. Don't worry."

  " If they ask, tell 'em I had to go out of town on business and I'll be back soon. I'll call you and tell you where to bring me the money," Desi said.

  He ended the call. Wilfredo had told him not to worry, but in fact he was plenty worried. He knew Wilfredo would skim whatever he could from Desi's rightful income, and that skim might be a pretty big chunk. But that was the price he had to pay for his temporary exile in hiding.

  He was also worried about Machado. If she didn't get her dime a week every fucking Friday, she would hunt him down like a dog. Truth was, he was more afraid of her than he was of those Jamaicans.

  After a quick search of his directory, he found her number and called it.

  "Machado," she answered.

  "Sergeant Machado, this is Desi Ramos."

  "What is it, Desi?" Impatience all over her voice.

  "Sergeant Machado, I can't meet you at Dolphin Mall this Friday."

  "What the fuck is this, a joke? You know our deal."

  "I know, I know," Desi said. He hated this fucking dyke. Hated everything about her. Her pushy attitude, her high-and-mighty shit. He really hated kissing her ass like this. "I'm trying to say, I can meet you, just not at Dolphin Mall this week."

  "Well … where, then?"

  "There's a little Cuban restaurant in West Hollywood called the Las Vegas. It's on State Road 7 and —"

  "I know it," she said. "Our usual time. Six o'clock Friday."

  "Yeah, yeah. That'll be good. Six o'clock on Friday."

  She said, "Don't fuck up, Desi. Be there."

  He walked outside, up the street a block or so to the Turnpike overpass, and threw his phone against the massive cement support column. Then he returned to his apartment. The Marlins-Phillies game had just started.

  39

  Silvana

  Hialeah, Florida

  Friday, April 13, 2012

  12:35 PM

  THE FRIJOLES NEGROS WERE ESPECIALLY TASTY today and Silvana had to smile with every golden forkful. She liked to mix them in with the rice and the cut pieces of grilled chicken breast on her plate. She always did this, no matter where she was eating this dish, and it always tasted far better than eating the individual components of the meal separately. But today, here at Yoyito, they exceeded even her expectations. She knew now when she died, she was going to hell because she'd just been to heaven.

  Yoyito was this tiny Cuban restaurant in Hialeah, in the far corner of a small strip center, seldom catching anyone's particular attention, but a big neighborhood favorite. She and Vargas had stumbled onto it a few months ago, coming here for lunch after doing some legwork in the area. What was it? What were we doing out here? Then she remembered. One of her Miami drug dealers didn't show up one payday at the appointed spot and she and Vargas had to track him down. It wasn't too hard to do, just asked around a little, and they trailed him to a barred-up one-story dump in central Hialeah. Vargas worked him over and they extracted their tax plus interest.

  Afterward, they'd worked up an appetite and as they rolled up to the intersection of West 49th Street, they saw Yoyito. One bite of the food and she knew they'd found a little undiscovered gem.

  She sipped at her con leche when her cell phone rang. She didn't recognize the number on the caller ID, Vargas looked at the number and shrugged, but she answered it anyway. "Machado."

  "Machado. You know who this is?"

  She knew. That voice stayed with you once you heard it.

  "Maxie," she said. "Why are you calling me?"

  "I need to see you. Ahorita. Right away. Can you come to my office?"

  She said, "What's it about?"

  "I can't tell you on this phone. Come here right away. Please."

  Please? That was a word you didn't hear Maxie Méndez say very often. Now she was interested. "You're in luck. I'm in Hialeah right now. I can be there in about fifteen minutes." She crawled back into her delicious meal as if it were a hot bath.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Twenty-five minutes later, they pulled up into the handicapped spot in front of Lolita's. Silvana reached for the door handle but Vargas put a hand on her arm.

  "I gotta tell you, Silvi," he said, "I'm not crazy about this. I don't like it."

  She let go of the door handle and turned to face her partner. "Bobby, don't worry. There's not gonna be any trouble. If it starts to look bad, we tell him we phoned our location in to headquarters, complete with a description of Méndez's mysterious phone call, and if we don't call in when we leave, he'll have a SWAT team in his face."

  "Well … it's one thing we come here every Friday to collect our juice, but this … he calls us."

  "I know. Take it easy, partner. Nothing's going to happen." She reached again for the door. "I mean, stay alert, okay? Don't go to sleep in there. But we'll
walk out under our own power."

  They entered the store and once again felt the soothing air conditioning, always set to perfection in this place. They took their time sauntering to the rear office, where the ape sentry opened the door for them, giving off the distinct vibe of I know you're cops and that's the only reason I'm letting you in, so don't push it. Silvana and Vargas walked past him without so much as a look.

  Maxie sat at his desk in his shirtsleeves, no necktie, and sweating like a glass of ice water despite the cool AC. His bodyguard remained to one side. Silvana and Vargas entered and stood side by side, Vargas's suit jacket was open for easy access to his holstered weapon.

  Silvana opened. "What's up, Maxie? What's so damned important?"

  "Did you hear about what happened Saturday night? That nigger drug dealer getting clipped?"

  "Yeah. What of it?"

  He looked like he was about to cry. "Did you know my daughter was killed there, too? My beautiful daughter!"

  Silvana's jaw dropped. She looked at Vargas. His mouth was open, too, telling her he knew nothing about it.

  "N-no," she said. "We — we didn't know that. I'm really sorry to hear that, Maxie. I mean that. We were off yesterday, so when it was called in, they gave the case to someone else." Vargas nodded alongside her.

  "She was so lovely," Maxie said. "Her whole life was in front of her! Only twenty-one years old and now … now …" He buried his face in his hands and started sobbing. Vargas was going to speak up, maybe offer some sympathy, but Silvana stopped him. Give Maxie this moment.

  When Maxie composed himself, he said, "She was my reason for living, you understand? My only daughter. My beautiful, precious daughter! My little Ana Maxina! Dead! Murdered by some fucking scum …" His voice flowed on, sailing off into the room, promising to track down the killer and dispense his own kind of justice. Then he said, "And I want you to give me whatever the Miami PD gets on this case. I want every scrap of information that comes your way."