by Don Donovan
"A third party?" Flores went into deep thought. "I like that idea, Alicia. Good thinking, as usual. Let me consider it on the plane back to Medellín. We're having a board meeting on Monday, and I will bring this up. Your suggestion, too, Floyd. All this will be discussed Monday."
Everyone looked at each other and nodded. Jimmy was surprised this girl came up with the idea, and further surprised Flores seemed to know her quite well.
Flores signaled he was finished. Maxie took the cue and said, "Now, let us eat and drink!"
17
Jimmy
Hialeah, Florida
Friday, August 17, 2012
5:10 PM
THE GATHERING BROKE UP ON A HIGH NOTE, with Maxie thanking everyone for coming, and everyone saying respectful farewells to Don Rafael. The refreshment table was properly decimated and the whiskey and wine bottles were drained. Jimmy walked out into the parking lot. Marco Sierra and Floyd Dunbar, Maxie's other two crew chiefs, left with him.
They stood by Sierra's black Mercedes. Sierra spoke. "Jimmy, you want some help in finding that pinche cabrón Zayas?"
Jimmy said, "Ask around in your crew. You too, Floyd, if you would. See if anyone has heard about him. Knows where he is, or where I might find him."
"Too bad you didn't get him at that hotel," Dunbar said. "If I see him, I will do him myself for what he did to Raúl."
"If you see him, Floyd, hold him for me. Don't do it yourself. I want this one. I want him bad."
"Muy bien, hermano," Dunbar said. "El es tuyo."
"I wonder who did the Russian," Sierra said.
Jimmy shrugged. "Damned if I know, but those fucking Russians are gonna come after us. You can bet on that."
Sierra said, "That girl, that … Alicia. If she can get a mediator —"
At that moment Alicia exited the liquor store and walked by the men. "Jimmy, could I speak with you for a moment please?"
Sierra and Dunbar grinned and Jimmy said, "Sure." He walked over to her and she led him to a spot about four cars down, out of earshot. "What's up?" he said.
"I didn't get a chance to speak with you in there, but Nora called me yesterday. She said you and she were talking about washing some of your money?"
Jimmy remembered Nora telling him about this. He noticed Alicia's extraordinarily high heels made her just a shade taller than he was. "You're that girl she grew up with? You?"
Alicia smiled. "Nobody but me," she said.
"Well … well, yeah. I think we do want to use your services. What do we have to do?"
"I don't want to get into it too deeply here in the parking lot, but I can take care of you. Nora asked me as a favor, but I don't look at it that way. She's a homegirl and I'm happy to do it for her. And for you."
"Well, that's really great of you, Alicia. Thanks."
"I guarantee your money will be out of reach of the authorities. For that I get ten points up front."
"Done," Jimmy said, sticking out his hand.
"I'll call you in the next few days. Get your cash together." Jimmy walked back over to Sierra and Dunbar. Alicia looked back at them. "Nice meeting you guys," she said. "We'll see you again, I'm sure." Her stilettos clicked across the paved parking lot as she walked to her car. At that moment, Jimmy could hear nothing else but her rhythmic steps. Then he saw a driver open the rear door of the Bentley.
"Holy shit!" he cried. "That's her Bentley!"
Dunbar: "I saw it here, too, when I got here. I thought it was probably Don Rafael's car. God damn! It's hers!"
The car purred to life and moved out of the lot. All three men watched it as it turned east on 49th Street, heading for Miami.
In a few seconds, Flores came out with Maxie. They exchanged a few cordial words and the black Cadillac pulled up to the door and Flores got in. Maxie waved as the car rolled away.
"Jimmy," Maxie called out. He beckoned Jimmy to the door of the store. Jimmy said his goodbyes to his peers and went over to Maxie.
Maxie pulled him to one side of the doorway, out of the way, and said, "Now, you heard Alicia say she was going to get a mediator for this Russian problem. When she does, and if the Russians go along with it, I want you to go."
Jimmy showed surprise in his eyes. "Are you not going?"
"I will go, yes. But I want you with me. For protection and for your counsel. I respect your opinion, Jimmy. I need you there."
"I would be honored, Maxie."
Maxie said, "Just remember, we are second level people. The Russians will probably send second level people also. No decisions will be made. Each side will gather the information from the give and take, and report back to their superiors. In this case, we will report to Don Rafael, who will carry our findings to Colombia, where the decision will be made."
"When do you think this meeting will happen, if it happens at all?"
"Soon," Maxie said. "Very soon. Russian blood is boiling up there in Brighton Beach and we will need to move fast."
"Do you know who this Alicia has in mind?"
"She didn't say, but while we were eating and drinking, she stepped out of my office into the storeroom and made a call. After the call, she pulled me aside and told me the person agreed to act as mediator and would get right on it. I should hear something from Alicia later tonight."
Jimmy considered the weight of it all. Maxie Méndez, top guy in Hialeah and Little Havana, with a reach all across Miami itself, the guy who reports directly to Rafael Flores in Medellín, is going into a snake's nest with pissed-off Russians, people who are even more ruthless than the Colombians, if that were possible. Maxie lived with the hope that some third party can keep the Russians from blowing his brains out on the spot. And he wants me to go with him, Jimmy thought. It's not that I'm afraid. Danger comes with the job. But I wonder if it's wise to make ourselves so vulnerable to a sworn enemy.
"Just remember, Jimmy," Maxie said. "We will not only be representing our people in Hialeah and Little Havana, but we will be there for Don Rafael also. He has told me himself that he is counting on us to straighten this out with the Russians. Otherwise, we will find ourselves in a very bloody war. One we may not win."
18
Silvana
Miami, Florida
Friday, August 17, 2012
7:15 PM
THE BLEAK SCENERY ALONG NORTHWEST 27TH Avenue was made more palatable to Silvana by the sun sinking behind the Metrorail Elevated, which ran above the center of the street, casting shade onto her car. At least the sun wasn't in her damned eyes.
She hated driving with the late afternoon sun blazing through the windshield right at eye level. For one thing, you could be easily blinded, even if for a second or two. But that's all the time these asshole Miami drivers need to slam into you and fuck you up real bad. So a word of thanks to whoever built that Elevated. The shade was perfect.
Northwest 50th Street lay ahead, a shitty little street full of cheap, two-story apartment buildings, a dangerous street the law forgot. She made a right turn onto it.
Down one block to 26th Avenue and there he was, according to script, waiting for her. Looking like just another black guy leaning on a stop sign. His black Dodge Charger stood a couple of feet away, motor running. A woman rode shotgun.
Silvana pulled up to the corner. "What's up, G-Man?" she said.
He stood about five-eight, Silvana's height, and his wiry build didn't do him any favors. He appeared gangly and awkward, not exactly the image a pimp needs for success in his chosen field. His red polyester shirt was a weak attempt at trying for the flashy look. The jeans he wore were standard, off-the-rack stuff. Sneakers: dirty and forgettable.
"Yo, Sergeant," he said.
"It's Lieutenant Machado now," Silvana said. "But that doesn't change anything between you and me. Give." She stuck her hand out.
He reached into his pocket and came out with a wad of cash. Fives, tens, twenties, a hundred or two. She grabbed it from him.
She counted it all. "This is only eight-fifty,"
she said. "You're a hundred and fifty light."
"Yeah, well, that was what I wanted to talk to you about," he said. "I had a bad week, you know what I'm sayin'? And this here's all I got. I c'n get the rest for you by —"
A swift right to the jaw got his attention.
"You owe me a hundred and fifty. You know the deal. Every Friday at seven. Now let's have it."
He rubbed his sore chin. "Lieutenant, I swear to you, I ain't got it."
A hard right to his gut and he doubled over. She got her considerable muscle into that one and she knew it stung him.
"This is going to keep up until you fork it over," she said.
He pulled himself back upright with the help of the stop sign and head-signaled the woman in the car. She got out and came over to them.
Her flimsy top barely covered her ample tits, which were further aided by a push-up bra, visible in front and on her shoulders. Gold short shorts wrapped around her sizable ass. She was somewhere in her twenties, but from the way she walked around the car, Silvana could see she had lived a much longer, much more demanding life. Silvana recognized her from a few weeks ago when she and Vargas went looking for G-Man on another matter.
"You again?" Silvana said. She turned to G-Man. "Tell me her name one more time. Quarnesha? Or Jerlene, or one of those ghetto names?"
G-Man looked down at that the ground and scraped the pavement with the toe of his shoe. "Her name's Laquita," he said.
"Hey, I ain't done nothin'!" the girl said.
"You're one of G-Man's whores, aren't you, Laquita?"
She slung her cheap purse over her shoulder and her hands went straight to her hips. She stuck her chin out and proclaimed, "I ain't no ho', cop."
Silvana reached out and slapped her across the face. "You address me as Lieutenant Machado or Ma'am, you got that, bitch?"
Laquita made an attempt to straighten out her clothing, which didn't need straightening but bought her a few seconds.
"I said, you got that, bitch?"
A little of her attitude ran for the exits. "Yeah, I got it."
Another slap, this one harder. "Not 'yeah'," Silvana said. "I told you how to address me."
"Y-yes, ma'am," Laquita said. Then she quickly located her confidence and added, "But I still ain't done nothin'."
G-Man gave her another head signal. "Give her the money, baby."
Laquita looked at him as though she didn't hear him right.
"Go on," he said. "I said give it to her."
With great hesitation, Laquita reached into her fake leather purse and pulled out a few bills. Silvana snatched them from her hand and counted them out. One hundred fifty on the nose.
"Yo, Lieutenant," G-Man said. "I'm havin' a real hard time here lately. I really can't afford to be givin' you this money every week, you know what I'm sayin'?"
"Then find another line of work," Silvana said. "And if I were you, I'd find another girlfriend." She gestured toward Laquita. "She's not the best advertising for your business."
"Hey, wha —" Laquita began, but G-Man shut her up with a hand over the mouth.
Silvana stood at the door of her car and said to G-Man, "Now, there's one other thing."
"Yeah?"
"I need some information."
"Why the fuck should I give you any information? I'm already givin' you a dime a week."
A punishing left to the kidney and G-Man went down on one knee. He coughed and wheezed for a minute, then Laquita helped him to his feet. "Come on, baby, it's awright," she said.
"Because," Silvana said, "if you get me the right information, I'll let you slide for a week. You understand? It's worth a thousand dollars to you."
He held his hurting midsection. "Wh-whaddya wanta know?"
"I want to know who killed Raúl Nuñez."
"Who the fuck is that?"
Silvana said, "He's a drug dealer. Cuban guy. Got shot in the Dobbs Hotel down off Seventh Street the other night."
"Oh, Nuñez," G-Man said. "I heard about that dude, got shot in that Dobbs fuckin' place. Man, serves him right. I wouldn't have any of my girls take anybody there, you know what I'm sayin'? Place is a fuckin' rat trap."
"You hear anything about who did him?"
"No. No, ma'am."
Silvana gave him her card and looked hard at him. "You hear anything, anything at all, you call me. If it pans out, a thousand dollars stays in your pocket."
That was language he could understand. "Yeah," he said. "I'll keep an ear out." He slipped the card into the pocket of his red shirt.
Laquita spoke up. "Don't expec' nothin' out of me. You callin' me a ho' and all. When I ain't done nothin'."
Silvana got into her car and moved on to her next payoff.
19
Jimmy
Hialeah, Florida
Saturday, August 18, 2012
5:25 PM
CAFÉ Q-BANO WAS FILLING UP. Not that it ever really emptied out from lunch. Saturday was a big day for them. Families, locals bringing weekend guests in for a taste of real Cuban food … the place remained at least half full throughout the day. Saturday nights, though, were prime. Every seat full, plenty of noise, waiting lists, people sitting outside in the heat on benches near the door. Tonight was bigger than usual, the air conditioning straining to keep up. Jimmy blotted sweat on his forehead with a paper napkin.
After he fired Yelina on Wednesday, he found a new girl almost immediately, and she rocked. She knew her way around a restaurant, knew how to deal with the kitchen staff, how to please customers, and her tips reflected it. A real godsend, Jimmy figured. And she was showing her stuff tonight. Upselling the customers when she could, getting the food out, keeping the drinks full.
He worked the register, as he usually did when he was there, which was at least three, four days a week. The rest of the time, Alvaro, his trusted manager, held the reins. The party of six had just cashed out their tab, a hundred and seventy smackers, when his cell phone rang. He glimpsed the caller ID. Flaco.
"Yo, Flaco," he said.
"Yo, Jimmy. I got a little news for you."
"Hurry it up. We got a good crowd here."
Flaco said, "You been wantin' to know about that dude Wilfredo Zayas?"
All the noise around him died to a whisper. A chill attacked Jimmy's spine. "What about him?" he murmured.
"I seen him today. Down at the 305."
"The 305? Is he still there?"
"Naw," Flaco said. "Leastways, I don't think so. I seen him leave about four-thirty."
"What time did he come in? Why didn't you call me then?"
"I didn't see him come in, man. Else I would have. I's shootin' nine-ball with my homies and I look up and there he goes, slidin' right out the door, you know what I'm sayin'?"
Jimmy raised his voice, partly because he thought he couldn't be heard over the racket in the restaurant, partly out of anxiety. "Was he alone, with somebody?"
"Look like he was alone, but I axed around and they say he just come in to drop off a coupla dime bags of black tar."
"Drop them off to who?" Jimmy said.
"Dude name of Rizzo. JJ Rizzo."
"You know him? Where can I find him?"
"I only seen him around the 305, you know what I'm sayin'? But I'll see what I can find out."
"I'll be there in half an hour," Jimmy said. He swiped the call off. "Alvaro," he called out. "I've gotta run an errand. Take over."
He went back to his office and changed into his no-bullshit white guayabera, and was out the back door into his car.
≈ ≈ ≈
Saturday night was a big night at the 305, too. All five tables taken, with a twenty dollar bill sitting on the rail of each table, representing a challenger ready to take on the winner of the game in progress. When a game ended, the challenger stepped in and chalked his cue, and someone else threw a twenty down. Animated gamblers surrounded each table because this was Saturday night, which meant only the best players occupied the tables. Ambitious wannab
es were the opponents, slapping down their twenties, usually only lasting one game each.
Smoke filled every corner of the room, casting a graysih haze over everything. The air conditioning, what there was of it, did nothing at all to clear the air, and everyone seemed to be smoking and coughing. The small bar was packed, the bartender struggling to keep up. TVs played the Marlins pregame show. The bar patrons weren't paying attention now, but when the game began, all eyes would be on it.
Because the place was so busy, not many people noticed Jimmy and Flaco come in, but those who did showed proper deference and respect to Jimmy by standing aside while he passed. He went up to the cage where the manager stood, collecting money for the table rentals.
The manager knew him. "Jimmy, good to see you. How's it going?"
Jimmy leaned into the cage bars so he could speak without being overheard.
"Things will be going really good if you can tell me where I can find JJ Rizzo."
"Oh, that one," the manager said. "What do you need him for?"
"That's my business," Jimmy said under a cough, feeling sweat break out under his shirt and in his crotch. "Now where is he?"
"Honest to God, Jimmy, I don't know. He comes in here maybe once, twice a week. Shoots a couple of games of nine-ball, then splits. I'd rather he didn't come in at all, you know? He's kinda —" He briefly scrunched his shoulders together and made a face. "— fucked up, you know? The drugs and shit. We don't want his kind in here."
Jimmy had to laugh. Here was this guy talking as if he was running the fucking Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables. Like all his high-toned, smoking, hacking clientele would just be shocked beyond belief to know there was a junkie in their midst.
"Does he come in any particular day? Saturdays, for example?" Another cough. Two this time.
"Hard to say. He don't keep to no schedule. I don't think he works, so I don't know where he gets his money."
"How about Wilfredo Zayas," Jimmy said. "You know him?"
