by Don Donovan
"Nobody. I don't kick up to anybody."
Silvana pulled Sofía's hair all the way back. With a quick jerk, she shoved Sofía into the window pane, shattering the glass. Sofía's torso was backed out of the window, held only by Silvana's grip on her hair and on the belt of her slacks.
Silvana snarled from deep in her gut. "One more time. And then I let you go. It's only a drop of three floors. You might survive. But then again …
Sofía cried out. "Let me go! Pull me in!"
"Who runs this fucking operation?" Silvana said.
Sofía wriggled and gasped, then finally said, "Ma-Maxie Méndez."
Silvana's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "Maxie Méndez? Maxie fucking Méndez?"
"That's right," Sofía said through a cough.
"Does he know he was pimping out his own daughter?" She released Sofía's hair and pulled her back inside, away from the window.
"No." Sofía tried to straighten herself up, running a smoothing hand through her hair and rearranging the collar of her blouse. "He didn't know. I didn't even know who she was at first. She just told me she came from a good family. One of the other girls told me. After this girl went on a threesome date with Ana, she told me Ana had spilled it to her about her father. Not long after that, I let her go."
"Was that why?" Vargas asked.
"Well, sort of," Sofía said. "But what I said before about her not having the right look for the service, that was a big part of it, too."
Vargas said, "Do you have any idea who killed her?"
"None at all."
At Silvana's head signal, the cops moved toward the door. She turned to Sofía and said, "Let me tell you something. If we hear about this little visit from anyone — Maxie, Reese Kilgore, anyone — we will come back and get you and cut you up and throw your fucking pieces into the Everglades. ¿Me entendés?"
Sofía gave her a shaky nod.
As they walked out the door, Silvana said, "You've come a long way from Rey's Pizza, puta."
Sofía slammed the door behind them.
43
Desi Junior
Hollywood, Florida
Friday, April 13, 2012
6:15 PM
SILENT CURSES FLOWED PAST DESI'S LIPS as he noted the time. That fucking Machado was late again. Not only does he have to pay that fucking dyke a grand a week, she makes him wait around for the privilege.
As he sat alone at his table in Las Vegas Cuban Cuisine fondling a bottle of beer, he searched his brain for a way out of this situation. His chin dropped to his chest while he ran through his options. He couldn't go on paying her forever. Something had to be done! Maybe he could follow her home and waste her on her doorstep. Then she'd be out of his hair permanently.
But … no, killing a cop is out. There's no percentage in it. The full attention of the entire Miami PD will go toward hunting down a cop killer. The first thing they'd do would be to look at who was paying her off.
Maybe if he gave her —
"Boo!" she said, having sneaked up on him. Startled, his head jerked up.
"Can't you ever be on time?" he asked.
"Being on time is your job," she said. "Try being late once and see what happens."
She stuck her hand out. He pulled a folded envelope from the pocket of his jeans and handed it to her. A glance inside told her it was all there.
"How long is this shit going to go on?" she said.
"What shit?"
"Meeting in this place."
"What's the matter with it?" he asked.
"I don't like it. It's too far off the beaten path."
"Tough shit," he said.
Silvana grabbed his ear and twisted it hard. She said, "You know, I get nervous when punks like you start moving around from place to place. You bring me to a joint like this in a neighborhood where nobody goes and I start getting ideas."
"Ow-w-w-w. Ideas?"
"Yeah," Silvana said, shaking loose of his ear with a violent spasm. "Like maybe you don't want anybody to see you. Like maybe you're on the run."
He massaged his ear. "I'm thinking of relocating," he said, sass all over his voice. "I'm lookin' at prime real estate over here."
"Ha! The only prime real estate you're ever gonna call your own, maricón, is the six feet of earth they throw over your cold, gray corpse."
"Yeah, well, if I ever get back to Dolphin Mall, I'll be sure to let you know."
"You do that," she said. Then she added under her breath, but loud enough for him to hear, "You'd better do that."
44
Silvana
Miami, Florida
Friday, April 13, 2012
9:00 PM
EVERY TABLE AT THE 305 POOL ROOM WAS FULL when Silvana and Vargas arrived. Nine-ball games on each one of them, money riding on every aspect of every game. On the tables where the better players were, animated spectators exchanged money after every shot. Hawkeyed hustlers circulated through the room, looking for easy opponents. A few people sat at the small bar, waiting their turn to challenge a winner. Smoke hung over everything.
The two cops eyeballed the room, finding their target in a corner, clicking furiously on his cell phone. They moved toward him. He never saw them until they were practically in his face.
"Yo, Sergeant Machado," Flaco said, looking at them nervously. He was used to dealing with Silvana alone, and then only by telephone. "What up?"
"We need to speak with you, Flaco. Outside." She motioned toward the rear door. The only other time they'd accosted Flaco in the 305 was the first time they'd met. It was also the only time he had laid eyes on Vargas. Flaco was full of his bullshit attitude that day, so they jerked him out back and roughed him up a little. He didn't like Vargas being here.
Today, though, was different. They all went outside peacefully.
Out in the alley, the cops stood close to Flaco. Close enough to get across the intimidation vibe. Like his name denoted, he was skinny. Really, really skinny. As though you could snap him in two. Despite that, however, he could handle himself pretty well when the going got rough. He was fearless and knew how to fight, which usually threw his opponents off their game. But he'd felt the sting of Silvana's shots before. And Vargas's, too. Silvana hoped he would stay cool.
His eyes shot nervously from one cop to the other. Silvana said, "We need information from you, Flaco. Serious shit."
"Whatchu need?" he asked, lighting a cigarette.
"We want to know who smoked Bebop, the Jamaican drug dealer, in front of his apartment house over the weekend. We need you to dig deep and find out who did it."
"Ain't gonna be no diggin', Sergeant. I already know who done it."
"You already know?"
"Yeah? Now whatchu gonna do for me?"
"Depends on what you want," she said. "You know the game. You help us, we help you."
"Awright," he said. "There's a big deal goin' down Sunday night up in Liberty City. A big fuckin' deal, you know what I'm sayin'? We need to be sure the cops don't interfere."
"You give us the shooter, we protect your drug deal?" Vargas said. "I could just beat it out of you right now, motherfucker."
Silvana gently elbowed Vargas to one side and stepped directly in front of Flaco. "There's not going to be any rough stuff, Flaco. Just give me the name and we'll hold up our end."
"For sure? You make sure there ain' no cops around."
"For sure." Silvana nodded a little insurance. "Now what's the name?"
"Word is, it was a dude by the name of Desi Ramos."
Silvana took a small step backward as if being struck by a slight blow. Fortunately, Flaco missed this sign of weakness since he was dragging on his cigarette in celebration of revealing The Big Name.
"You sure it's him?" she asked.
"I am one hunnert percent sure, you know what I'm sayin'?" he replied.
"How can you be so sure? How do you know?"
"Hey, Sergeant, I can't be tellin' you all my secrets. I got people out there, they h
ear things, you know what I'm sayin'?"
Silvana's voice turned to ice. "Tell us how you know. We're not going to do shit for you if we think you're just giving us some bullshit name to get your deal protected."
Flaco settled down. "Awright, awright. I know it ain' that Jamaican nigga you care 'bout, but Maxie Méndez's daughter, right?"
Silvana was stunned again, but she instantly composed herself. She knew Flaco was somewhat high up in Maxie's organization, and as such would probably know Maxie would turn to the cops on his payroll to find the killer of his little girl. His little whore girl, she thought.
"How do you know it was Desi Ramos?" she repeated in the hardest voice she could muster.
Flaco went into the story of Ansel Taylor and how he tracked down the red Escalade, and how Desi was the only player in South Florida with such a vehicle.
"Them Jamaicans, man, they be lookin' for that dude. They some righteous fuckin' gangstas, you know what I'm sayin'?"
Silvana believed his whole story. And she was astonished to learn Ansel Taylor could get a DMV make quicker than she could.
She said, "Text me the details of your deal. Make sure to delete the record of the text from your phone. We'll make sure you don't have company."
Flaco flipped his cigarette against the side of the building, sending a starburst of orange sparks into the night, and went back inside.
45
Silvana
Miami, Florida
Friday, April 13, 2012
9:25 PM
SILVANA AND VARGAS SAT IN THEIR CAR in the loading zone outside the 305 with the engine running and the air conditioning going full blast.
"It fits, Bobby," Silvana said. "Bebop's driver spots the red Escalade, runs a make on it, and narrows it down to Desi."
"But what reason would that lowlife motherfucker have to kill the nigger?"
"Could be anything. Maybe one of them was trying to move in on the other's territory. In the drug world, that's a capital crime all by itself. Shit, I just made our pickup from him a few hours ago. If I'd known about this, I maybe could've gotten something out of him."
"You think so?"
"I don't know. I might have. It adds up, though. I made our pickup at a place over in Hollywood, instead of Dolphin Mall where I usually meet him. I mentioned something about him being on the run, but I was half-joking. Now it looks like that's what he's doing. Like he's afraid the Jamaicans will find him. If he was really the one who did this, that is."
"What do you mean, 'if'?" Vargas said. "You don't believe Flaco?"
"Well, I'm just not a hundred percent sure about him being the shooter. Flaco gave us some good data and like I said, it all fits, but I'm not giving Desi up until I'm sure. And I mean absolutely fucking sure."
"Okay," Vargas said. "But think about this. If we, if we give him up to Maxie, there goes a thousand dollars a week."
"Well, yes, but don't forget, you and I are only getting two hundred and fifty each. Santos gets a full five hundred as his cut."
"Silvi, you know he's gonna be pissed if we cut off the head of the golden goose! If he loses that five hundred, he'll … he hates to lose money like that. Our careers, our careers might go right down the fucking toilet!"
Vargas was momentarily startled by a tap on the driver's side window. He turned to see a uniformed patrolman gesturing for him to roll the window down. He pressed a button and the window lowered.
"You know you're parked in a loading zone?" the uniform said, his voice full of authority and attitude. "License and registration, please."
Vargas reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced his badge. "Homicide division. We're here on a murder investigation."
"Oh, sorry, Detective," said the cop, losing all attitude immediately. "My mistake."
"That's all right, Patrolman," Vargas said, and slid the window back up.
Silvana grinned, and then got back to business. She put out her hands, palms down, to soothe her partner, who had gotten more agitated by the cop. She said, "Okay, listen. Our careers aren't going anywhere but up. Santos loves us. You know that. He loves us because we get him results and make him look good to the captain. That's why he lets us get away with all our shit." She put a calm hand on his shoulder. "You remember, Maxie said he would take good care of us if we gave him the name. We'll cut Santos in for a piece of it. That should keep him happy."
"Well … "
She added, "And it's not even about the money, you know. We gave our word to Maxie. We gave him our word."
46
Desi Senior
Miami Beach, Florida
Sunday, December 31, 1989
11:25 AM
JULIO CESAR DELGADO DROVE SLOWLY through the busy streets of Miami Beach. Tourist season was humming, and snowbirds had descended upon the area in great droves, fearful of the approaching harsh winter in whatever part of the Northeast they came from. Desi rode shotgun with his Miami Herald open to the local news section. The headline screamed at him:
GRUESOME MURDER
MUTILATED BODIES FOUND IN HIALEAH
He read the article with great interest. Neighborhood kids had apparently been playing stickball in the street and on the side of the property. One of them ventured around to the back chasing a foul ball, when he let out a horrific scream. His pals ran to the back to see what was wrong and they all screamed when they laid eyes on the bloodied, headless corpses, a queen of spades emerging from the mouth of each severed head.
Police were called, the neighborhood was traumatized. Guns came out of drawers, curtains were drawn, doors were locked, prayers were said aloud. Kids were kept inside. Street traffic vanished. Few slept.
The victims ¾ there were three of them ¾ were Felipe Velasquez, 24, of Hialeah, his cousin Ernesto Velasquez, 23, also of Hialeah, and Conroy Charles, 20, originally from Jamaica, now from North Miami. The Velasquez cousins worked in a body shop in East Hialeah, and Charles worked with his younger brother, also an immigrant, involved in what the paper called "entrepreneurial activities." Hialeah Police vowed to "hunt down the perpetrators of this heinous crime and bring them to face justice", according to the chief. "The people of Hialeah will not stand for such brutality in our own back yard," he said.
Desi chuckled. He read the article aloud to Delgado. They had a good laugh.
Soon, Delgado swung the car easy-does-it into a gated driveway. The hard-faced sentry at the gate peered into the car, saw Delgado, and pressed a button in his guardhouse. The gate glided open soundlessly.
The car moved slowly up a long, paved lane toward a monstrous house, spread wide across the property, fronted by a circular drive, with a large offshoot lot where you could park about fifteen cars. At the end of the house was a garage so big that Desi couldn't guess how many cars it held. The house itself was pillared across the first floor veranda, above which stretched a second floor balcony running the entire length of the house. The vast front lawn was spangled with coconut palms, their gentle fronds moving slowly in the slight breeze drifting in from the ocean. Hibiscus of yellow and orange strung itself out along the front of the house, on both sides of the circular drive. About a half-dozen guards patrolled the front area with darting eyes, each one bearing an automatic weapon. None of them looked lazy.
This was the home of Griselda Blanco. Before she went to prison, that is. These days, its principal resident was Michael Corleone Blanco, her son.
"Mike took over when his mother went to Federal prison back in '85," Delgado said to Desi in his scratchy voice as they rolled toward the house.
"So now he's numero uno?" Desi said. "Everyone answers to him?"
Delgado shook his head. "He may be living in the big house, but La Madrina still calls the shots. Problem is, she's been gone so long, even her influence is wearing thin. The kid may hold the reins, but the horses are starting to get away from him. And from Griselda."
According to Delgado, Michael was neither as cunning nor as ruthless as his mother, and everyone
around him knew it. He lacked Griselda's organizational skills as well as her instinct. Instinct was necessary if you were to be anywhere near the top. And that instinct had to serve you well, it had to be right all the time. If you misheard a coded word, or trusted the wrong person, or were unable to sniff out traitors, your tenure was likely to be short.
Jockeying for position was the chief activity at the upper levels of the organization, and many of Michael's "advisers" had big things in mind. Chief among them, Delgado said, was getting approval from Medellín to take him out, and Griselda, too, while they were at it.
"Can't they get the okay from Medellín?" asked Desi, clearly fascinated by the byzantine doings of these moneyed elites in the drug world.
"Just so you understand, Desi," Delgado said, "when I say 'Medellín', I mean only one man. Pablo Escobar."
Desi, like all of America, was well-acquainted with the image of Pablo Escobar. Widely feared, he stood no opposition, and the vast majority of the cocaine business began and ended at his door. There might be many godfathers, it was said, but there was only one God.
"Why won't he approve?" he asked Delgado.
"Griselda has made Pablo billions of dollars," Delgado said as they approached the house. "Billions. He's not going to throw her over so quickly. He knows there's no guarantee any of these other guys are going to be better than Michael and probably none of them will do anywhere near as well as his mother. Besides, he's got other issues to deal with in Colombia."
"Like what?"
"Like the two big cartels are starting to slip, lose their grip on power. The business is becoming more decentralized. And the Colombian government is putting a lot of pressure on him." He pulled up to the door where an attendant waited to park the car. "Here we are. Let's say no more about it."
Desi nodded. He stepped out of the car at the door of the huge mansion and drank in a long look. His head slowly swiveled on his shoulders as he took in the incomprehensible scope of this great house. Obscene amounts of money paid for all this, and for God knows what else. He was sure Griselda had opulent homes such as this one in multiple cities. Cars, airplanes, boats, expensive jewelry … nothing — absolutely nothing — was out of reach for someone with this kind of money. All flowing from the sale and distribution of cocaine.
