STAYING ALIVE (Book Three of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  He took her hand gently in his and softened his tone to a murmur. "I owe that shirt everything," he said. "Because of it, I met you and you became the love of my life. Hell, you are my life."

  A tear came to her eye. Then another. She said, "Because of that shirt, I have you, and if you hadn't been the wonderful man you are and stuck by me after — after — well … I might have killed myself."

  "Shhh," he said. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that. I'm here with you now and I will be here with you forever. I swear it to you, honey."

  In a tear-choked voice, she said, "I love you so much."

  He looked at his watch. "You know, we still have some time before we leave for Islamorada."

  She smiled back at him through her tears. He easily lifted her from her chair and carried her into the bedroom.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Afterward, they hugged for a long time.

  15

  Laura Lee

  Islamorada, Florida

  Friday, August 17, 2012

  12:00 Noon

  THE LUNCHTIME CROWD AT LORELEI'S was as thick and as loud as the happy hour crowd of their first visit. Fuzzy maneuvered her wheelchair through the crush until they spotted Logan at a table near to the one they occupied on Tuesday. Just as before, Fuzzy guided her to the table, then moved away a few yards, standing watch.

  The waitress swooped down on them immediately. Logan ordered beer, Laura Lee wanted wine. So far, no surprises.

  Logan opened. "Why did you want me to come all the way up here? I have a job, you know. It was very tough for me to take off like this in the middle of the day. This better be important."

  Laura Lee said in a raised voice to sail over the crowd noise, "Job? You didn't have any problem yesterday taking off from your 'job' to do my 'job'." She used air quotes to make her point.

  "I work outside. It rained yesterday. Besides, I told you on the phone I made the trip, did your job."

  "Did my job?" Laura Lee said. "Did my job? You have no fucking idea what you did."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Well, for starters, you got the wrong guy."

  "What?"

  "You heard me," she said. "You wasted Anton's brother. Name of Vitali."

  "His brother? He looked just like the photo! What was he, a fucking twin or something?"

  "Or something," she said. "He was a year or two older than Anton. Looked sort of like him. Hadn't seen him in a couple of years. Came down from Brooklyn and was staying with him for a month or so, renewing their brotherly bonds, till he got his own place."

  The waitress brought their drinks. Laura Lee took a fast pull at her wine. Logan left his beer on the table.

  He said, "Fuck me! His brother?"

  "That's right. And you haven't heard the half of it. You obviously don't read the Miami Herald. Otherwise you'd be shitting in your drawers right about now."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean Vitali Kovalenko is — was — a high-level enforcer for the Russian mob in this country. Even though the article didn't say so, the Russians are planning a big move on the drug business in South Florida. They want in on it real bad. Vitali was one of the advance men. Down here to line up street dealers and some of the mid-level guys."

  "How do you know all this?" Logan asked.

  Laura Lee's eyes moved slowly in Fuzzy's direction, followed by a very slight head gesture.

  Logan said, "Him?"

  "Didn't I tell you he was an ex-cop? Vice. He's still got a lot of friends on the force."

  "Bring him over to the table," Logan said. "I want the full story."

  "You've got the full story," she said. "As full as it's going to get. Hey —"

  He signaled Fuzzy, who was at their table in an eyeblink.

  "What's wrong?" Fuzzy said.

  Laura Lee tried to tell him nothing was wrong, but Logan raised his voice over hers. "Sit down here," he said, "and tell me about this Vitali guy and why he was in Anton's apartment and Anton wasn't."

  Fuzzy looked around, made sure they had no one's attention. He took a seat. Laura Lee gulped some more wine. She was ready to let him carry the ball in this conversation.

  "He's a heavyweight in the Russian mob," he said.

  "She told me that already," Logan said.

  "You don't need to know any more." Fuzzy said.

  "Yes I do. If I smoked a Russian gangster, I've got a right to know what to expect."

  Fuzzy: "For starters, you personally can expect nothing. If you keep your mouth shut, that is. Vitali Kovalenko came down a couple of weeks ago from Brighton Beach — that's a part of Brooklyn. It's where the Russian mob's headquarters are in this country. They sent him down here, along with a couple of other guys just like him, to muscle in on local drug action. Starting off small. Just a few street dealers and a couple of small-weight middlemen. Candy men, they're called. Intimidate them, bring them on board — that was Kovalenko's mission — and give the Russians a foothold."

  "So what happens now?" Logan asked.

  Laura Lee drank a little more wine and spoke. "What happens is, you're in a fucking heap of trouble."

  Fuzzy put a gentle hand on her arm to keep her from waving it around. He said to Logan, "What Laura Lee is trying to say is, you have to finish the job. Take care of Anton."

  "Hey, fuck that! I went up there, I saw a guy who looked like the photo you gave me, I did him. Now you tell me I have to do it all over again?"

  "That's exactly what I'm telling you," Fuzzy said. "Because if you do, if you make things right, it'll lift some of the heat."

  "Lift the heat? How?"

  Fuzzy shifted in his seat. "Because right now, nobody would ever believe Vitali Kovalenko was killed in a case of mistaken identity, that the killer was really after his brother, a gay ballet dancer who never hurt anyone." A dagger glance from Laura Lee, then he said, "Except Laura Lee, of course." That calmed her for the moment, and Fuzzy said, "It's just beyond anybody's comprehension that, a) somebody would want to kill Anton, and b) somebody would be able to get the drop on Vitali, who was as tough and wily as they come. I guarantee you they will pin this on a professional hit man. Maybe one of the Colombians who felt threatened by the Russian presence."

  Logan said, "So if I do Anton, the Russians will realize he was the target all along? That Vitali was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

  "They might think that," Fuzzy said. "Might is the word. But one thing's for sure. You don't do Anton, they will definitely think Vitali was the target, and they will unleash the fires of hell. They might do it anyway, even if you do hit Anton. But you can count on it if you don't."

  "And what's to lead them to me either way? I didn't know Vitali just like I don't know Anton. I have no connection to either one of them."

  Fuzzy said, "They'll dig into this like the cops never could. They can get people to speak up. Offer them money, threaten them, whatever. Anyone who might've seen you walk in or out of that building. Pass you in the hallway or the lobby. Sitting in your car. You just don't know."

  "I don't like it," Logan said, sipping his beer. "Somebody might be watching Anton's place now … the Russians, the cops … I could walk into a trap."

  Laura Lee piped up. "That's why you don't hit him at home. Follow him around till you get him in a spot where you can do it."

  "It's got to be clean," Fuzzy said. "No trail back to you. That means no trail back to us."

  "I don't know," Logan said.

  "You better know," Laura Lee said, "or else the cops hear a pretty song about those three killings in Little Havana last year." Her eyes darted around to check for eavesdroppers.

  Logan got up from the table. "I'll think about it," he said, and he turned for the exit.

  "Don't think too long," Laura Lee told him. She accidentally nudged her wineglass, spilling a little onto the table. "You've got one week. I don't read what I want to read in the Miami Herald by next Friday, I take action."

  16


  Jimmy

  Hialeah, Florida

  Friday, August 17, 2012

  3:25 PM

  MAXIE MÉNDEZ KEPT HIS OFFICE IN THE REAR of Lolita's Liquors. The strip center surrounding it stood in the center of Hialeah, on East 49th Street, and when Jimmy pulled his midnight blue Mercedes into the center's parking lot, he noticed automobiles belonging to other members of Maxie's hierarchy. Marco Sierra's Mercedes was there, with Floyd Dunbar's BMW right beside it. Despite his Anglo name, Dunbar was born in Hialeah of Cuban exile parentage. Somewhere way back in his family, someone had migrated to Cuba from England. And the name Floyd? Don't ask.

  Next to those cars were two that Jimmy didn't recognize: a Bentley Mulsanne which raised his eyebrows almost off his forehead altogether.

  This car's gotta be here for the meeting, he thought, eyeballing the other stores in the center. Nobody would bring this ride here to go shopping for cheap clothes or even to buy liquor at Lolita's.

  He parked alongside it and got out to look it over. A creamy vanilla number with a dark tan leather interior, tricked out with every elegant bell and whistle they could think up at the factory. One gorgeous fucking car.

  Also, he noticed a black Cadillac, but Caddies were relatively common up and down 49th Street, so he put its owner in one of the other stores.

  Maxie had called Jimmy this morning, summoning him to a three-thirty meeting at Lolita's. The others would be there as well, Maxie had said, emphasizing the importance of the gathering.

  He walked through the air-conditioned comfort of the large store and into the back, where Juano stood guard outside Maxie's office. Thickset and neckless, Juano was the man to have at your door if you wanted privacy. The bulge under his guayabera was merely there for backup in case he needed it, which was doubtful.

  They all sat around inside. Dunbar and Sierra on the couch, Maxie's large bulk taking up a great deal of space behind his desk, a woman — maybe somewhere in her thirties — Jimmy had never seen before, and a much older man. The woman and the older man were elegantly dressed, like a father and his daughter going to dinner at the Coral Gables Country Club. Jimmy had no idea who they were, why they were here, or for that matter, what this little get-together was all about.

  He noticed a long table set up off to the side, covered with steamers of catered food. Whiskey bottles and wine also sat waiting to be consumed. No one was eating or drinking.

  Jimmy said his hellos and exchanged pleasantries with Dunbar and Sierra, saving a respectful two-handed grip on his handshake with Maxie.

  Maxie said, "Jimmy, please say hello to Alicia López and Rafael Flores."

  The mention of Rafael Flores' name wiped out any memory of the woman. Flores was one of the very top guys in all of Colombia. Came up from the streets of Medellín in the seventies and made his reputation both in Colombia and in Miami during the Cocaine Cowboy days of the eighties, working with Pablo Escobar himself. For a dozen years or so, he was the cartel's link to the entire United States cocaine market. He, along with a couple of trusted associates, set up the distribution network in this country that remains in place to this day.

  Now he was the cartel's chief money man, responsible for sheltering their billions in drug cash from zealous — and often greedy — law enforcement.

  Jimmy realized he was in the presence of greatness, of legend.

  "Don Rafael," he said. "Me siento muy honrado de encontrarle." A slight bow before the seated Flores, who extended a hand. Jimmy took it in a tentative grip.

  Jimmy couldn't take his eyes off Flores until Maxie said, "Please say hello to Alicia López, Jimmy."

  He turned crisply toward her and checked her out. She wore a smart white silk blouse and a navy blue skirt with very high heels. Her face was all bewitching angles, highlighted by killer brown eyes. Just a touch of red-orange lipstick on her lovely mouth, but it was all she needed. He smiled. "Señorita, con mucho gusto."

  She returned the smile and extended her manicured hand. "Igualmente."

  Maxie said, "Alicia handles all the money for Don Rafael and our entire organization. Thanks to her, we are able to engage in legitimate investments and keep our money safe."

  Maxie motioned for Jimmy to take the only remaining seat in the room. Then he said, "First of all, I want to thank you all for coming here today. Don Rafael has requested this meeting and he interrupted his busy schedule to make this special trip here this morning from Colombia." He gestured to Flores. "Don Rafael, we all thank you for your efforts and for calling this urgent meeting." Everyone nodded in agreement and Flores' slight smile and nod acknowledged the tribute. Maxie said, "I would like to turn the meeting over to you."

  Flores stood up. He was an imposing figure in his European-cut dark blue suit, standing straight at about six feet tall. Jimmy made him to be somewhere south of seventy, but not by much. Maybe even a little north. Hair the color of newly-fallen snow sat on top of his head, coiffed to perfection. His eyes, deep set and dark, swiveled around to take in the assembled group.

  "Thank you, Maxie, for providing a meeting place and this assortment of food and drink." He motioned toward the table. "I know we would all like to partake, so I will get right to the point."

  When he said this, everyone in the room leaned forward a little. This movement came off with precision, and it gave the effect of a rehearsed unison move by an ensemble cast.

  He went on. "As I'm sure you all know, Vitali Kovalenko was clipped yesterday in Miami Beach. We all know what he was doing here. Those Russian cocksuckers up in Brooklyn sent him to Miami to take over the drug business. These Russians are animals! They kill women! Children! ¡Diós mío! Worse even than the Mexicans."

  From somewhere down in Jimmy's soul came the words, "They're Ukrainian, not Russian," but they never made it out of his mouth. He continued listening.

  Flores said, "Now this Kovalenko had been muscling a few street dealers and even a couple of candy men. The Russians know better than to go after the traficantes principales without any base of operations here, so they move in small … a little here, a little there, until they get their nose under the tent." He turned to Maxie. "Maxie, I understand Kovalenko had taken over the territory of …" He took a small piece of paper from his pocket and read a name from it. "… Wilfredo Zayas. Tell us about Zayas."

  Maxie said, "He is a scumbag street dealer. His territory is the Miami Airport, Dolphin Mall, and a couple of smaller areas. He recently took over from a guy named Desi Ramos, who passed away suddenly a couple of weeks ago. When that happened, we tried to move in on Zayas and take the territory for ourselves, but he told us Kovalenko had already taken it."

  "How did he do that so quickly?" Flores asked.

  "Apparently, for a couple of weeks before Desi passed away, he was unable to work, so Zayas worked the territory for him, and it was during this time that Kovalenko moved in on him. Zayas was still doing the day-to-day business, but turning over most of his money to Kovalenko, and buying from him, too."

  Flores nodded in understanding. "And how did you respond to that?"

  "I sent someone to take him out."

  "By 'him'," Flores said, "you mean Zayas?"

  "Yes," Maxie said.

  "Why did you not first go after Kovalenko directly?"

  Jimmy felt this question was unfair, putting Maxie on the hot seat in front of everyone like this.

  Maxie said, "As you know, Don Rafael, we are not looking to start a war with the Russians. Such a war would be long and expensive, and very, very bloody. I felt it best to rob Kovalenko of the ability to do business at the retail level by taking out his retailers."

  Jimmy knew Maxie was conveniently omitting the fact that Wilfredo Zayas was a dead man anyway after Desi Ramos "passed away suddenly" and his territory came up for grabs. Maxie soon concluded Wilfredo was not up to managing such lucrative areas and he felt it appropriate to take them over himself.

  "Ahh, very good, Maxie. Very good. Good thinking. Sort of the opposite of cutting off th
e head of the snake. Cut off its tail and then it cannot move. So now Zayas is no more?"

  Maxie spoke uneasily. "Uh, not exactly. We went to find him and he ambushed one of our men. Raúl Nuñez. A good man. A good earner. With a wonderful mother. Shot down by this fucking pig Zayas. Right in front of Jimmy Quintana here." He tossed a hand gesture Jimmy's way.

  "I trust you will find him."

  Maxie: "We will not stop until he is dead. That I can assure you, Don Rafael."

  Flores seemed to accept that as final. He then said, "On a related matter, why, please tell me — if you were 'cutting off the tail', as you put it — did you then kill Kovalenko yesterday?"

  "Don Rafael, I swear to you on my dear departed baby girl I did not give that order. I do not know who wasted Kovalenko, but I know I did not order it."

  Flores' head moved back slightly, startled by this totally unexpected information. "You are certain? You didn't even drop a hint, perhaps one of your men picked up and acted on it?"

  "Absolutely not," Maxie said. "Not the slightest hint."

  "If you did not order it, then …"

  "I do not know," Maxie said. He looked around the room. "Does anyone here have any information on Kovalenko's death?" Everyone shook their heads.

  Don Rafael shifted his weight on his feet. "You do realize, then, those fucking Russians are going to come after us. They are going to think Kovalenko killed this Nuñez over territory, and we, in retaliation, took out Kovalenko."

  A lot of murmuring and talking ensued. Worried faces and worried minds. Floyd Dunbar said, "Could you somehow contact the Russians, Don Rafael? ¿Podría explicarles la situación?"

  Flores was not reassuring. "I do not know any of them. We have never had occasion to meet or do business. When I return to Medellín, I will ask around. Maybe someone there has a contact, but myself? I do not."

  Alicia López spoke. "Don Rafael, would you consider the possibility of a third party, unrelated to us or the Russians, reaching out to them as a sort of mediator? It might avoid a lot of trouble."