by Don Donovan
24
Jimmy
Hialeah, Florida
Friday, August 24, 2012
4:25 PM
RUSH HOUR WAS RAPIDLY TAKING SHAPE in Central Hialeah. Cars poured out of seemingly every side street and parking lot onto East 49th Street, heading in both directions. The westbound traffic was worse, because virtually all of them were lined up to trickle onto the Palmetto, which itself was an absolute nightmare from about four o'clock on. Eastbound lay I-95, no picnic, but there were plenty of other major streets for the cars to peel off onto before getting there, thinning out the 95-bound traffic.
Heading east, Jimmy cursed all of these cars for jamming up the street in front of him, cursed the stoplights for not being better coordinated, for delaying him needlessly in his work. Renato was waiting for him.
His phone rang and he clicked the button on his dash. Flaco's name appeared.
"What is it, Flaco?"
"Yo, Jimmy. That wop Rizzo? He's here at the 305 right now."
Another curse. This one didn't escape his lips. He couldn't put this appointment aside over in East Hialeah.
"Listen, Flaco. I can't come over there right now. You take care of it. Get him to tell you where Wilfredo Zayas is."
"Yeah," Flaco said. "I'll let you know what I find out."
Jimmy made the turn onto East Eighth Avenue. Not much relief from the traffic here either, but it did seem to be moving a little, unlike East 49th. Pretty soon, he swung onto 17th Street over to East Eleventh Avenue, the last stop in Hialeah.
Along with rundown houses and body shops, the street held plenty of despair. Railroad tracks ran north-south, paralleling the entire eastern length of the street, serving as a natural border between Hialeah and Miami. The only access across the tracks in that neighborhood was East 17th Street, and then another crossing all the way down at East Ninth. More tracks ran east-west just above East 21st Street, effectively cornering the entire neighborhood, cutting it off from the outside world. Jimmy wondered if any cop cars ever patrolled this street. Doubtful.
Renato, like Flaco, was one of Jimmy's top boys. Shrewd and tough, he possessed some of the tightest street smarts Jimmy had ever seen. Jimmy had found him five or six years ago on the streets. Renato had just dropped out of high school, his mother had three more young ones to look after, and he had to earn a living. Jimmy took him under his wing, a move he never regretted.
Jimmy spotted his SUV at the end of Eleventh Avenue, where it T-bones into 21st Street. A row of industrial buildings ran the length of 21st. Hard, low-end businesses resided in these buildings with a loading dock every few yards, to serve each business. Semi trailers stood guard at these docks, including two in front of the Hialeah Box Company. Renato's SUV was parked in front of a space between these two semis, blocking off visibility of that space. Jimmy pulled up alongside.
In between the two semis, and hidden from view by the SUV, were Renato and Yoso, one of Renato's boys. Renato, a big, bruising guy with too little hair and too many tattoos, had African somewhere in his ancestry. Yoso didn't. Seated on the ground was another young man, a little younger than Jimmy.
"¿Qué pasó?" Jimmy asked, and not rhetorically.
Renato said, "This cabrón been buying from us for a year now. Sells the shit around here, you know what I'm sayin'? I see him today. I'm like, yo, you ain' bought nothin' for a while. Whassup wid that? He be like, I'm buyin' from this Russian dude now. Gettin' a better deal. He tell me he gettin' a better deal, you feel me?"
The mediated deal had not yet been formally ratified by either Medellín or Brighton Beach, so Jimmy was pretty certain no maps were looked at yet, no territory divvied up. East Hialeah was still open, not given over to Marchuk and his crew. And since Jimmy had controlled this area for a few months, he considered it his.
"Get up," he said to the guy on the ground. "¿Cómo te llamas?"
"Mako," he said, standing up.
Laughs all around. "Mako?" Jimmy said through a guffaw. "Mako? Like the shark?"
Mako looked at the ground. Jimmy shoved him against the semi.
"Your name is Mako?" he said. "For real?"
"For real," Mako said, eyes still down.
"Ha! Okay, Mako. Or should I call you 'Jaws'?" This got a rise out of Renato and Yoso. Jimmy turned serious on a dime. "What the fuck are you trying to pull, buying from someone else? You work this territory, you buy from us, ¿me entendés?"
For the first time, Mako looked at Jimmy. "These two guys — Russians, I think — they tell me I have to buy from them. They say I —"
Jimmy threw a hard right to his gut. He went down.
"I don't give a fuck what they told you. You buy from us!"
"But … b-but they say they kill me unless I buy from him." Mako gasped for breath.
"Who are these guys? Give me names."
"The one who did all the talking, he Damien. The other one, Gregor, the big guy, el rubio, he don't tell me nothing. He push me around, but he don't say much."
Jimmy turned to Renato. "How much did this pendejo bring in last week?"
Renato thought a minute. "About five hundred," he said.
"Five hundred? Five hundred? That's all you're earning in this neighborhood, you fucking faggot?"
Mako nodded. "It is very difficult around here. They don't —"
Jimmy slapped him so hard he almost went down again. "I don't give a fuck how difficult it is. You … no wait a minute. I got a better idea." He pulled his gun from his waist rig, a .380 semi-auto. He put the silenced barrel against Mako's forehead and fired. Mako's brains splashed all over the semi while Renato and Yoso leaped backward, startled. "Five hundred, hmph!" Jimmy turned to Renato. "Weight him down, dump him in the bay. Let the fish have him."
Renato said to Yoso, "Drag him to the car and put him in the back."
While Yoso was doing what he was told, Jimmy pulled Renato aside. "Find out who these fucking Russians are, this … Damien … and Gregor. Meanwhile, get somebody else out here right away to start selling." Renato nodded. "And for God's sake, let me see some real numbers. Hmph! Five hundred."
25
Logan
Key West, Florida
Friday, August 24, 2012
6:05 PM
I STEPPED OUT OF THE SHOWER feeling especially clean today. Although I take a shower every day after work, today was different. It was like I leaped out of the shower and into a bright future. Roger gave me a raise today, taking effect next week.
Now I know how working guys feel when they get rewarded with a raise. Even though they may not love their jobs in many cases, a raise tells them they have value, that somebody thinks they're worthy of a little something extra. Even when the raise is negotiated by a union, it must be a positive experience for them, and not just because it's more money. Somebody's telling them they matter. The fruits of their labor just got a little more fruity.
I dried myself off and put fresh clothes on. Dorothy had dinner waiting. I didn't even care what it was, I was so happy. I mean, the raise only amounted to a few bucks more a week, but it's a few more than I've been making for doing the same work.
You have to understand, this was the first time I've ever been graded on my efforts, my work. When I was doing crime, I put on my crime clothes, usually strapped on a piece, rounded up my crew, and went off to pull the job. Later — usually that same day — I came home and counted up the take with Dorothy. But never, and I mean never, has anyone ever said to me, "Logan, you did such a good job hijacking that truck, that I'm gonna give you an extra five grand."
Dinner was some kind of casserole and it tasted great. For that matter, so did the beer I had with it. Never tasted another beer like it. It felt refreshing going down. I took another satisfying pull.
Dorothy broke my uptempo rhythm and said, "You ever hear back from that wheelchair bitch?"
"No," I said. "Why would I hear from her?"
"Oh, I don't know. I thought maybe there was someone else she wanted you to c
lip."
"Come on, babe," I said. "That's over. We did what we had to do and now it's over."
She cut off a chunk of butter and tried to spread it on her bread. The butter was too cold and broke off in little pieces. "Yeah. Over. You wish."
"It is over. Why wouldn't it be?"
"Witnesses."
I said, "Witnesses? There were no witnesses."
"Oh yeah? Well, for starters, maybe somebody saw you waiting for that dancer outside the ballet headquarters. Maybe somebody saw you force him into his car. Maybe — just maybe — someone saw me follow the two of you."
"Dorothy, come on, don't —"
She put the bread and the butter knife down. "And just by some one-in-a-million shot, there might've been somebody skulking around close by on the streets of Liberty City when you shot that motherfucker."
"I used a silencer. Nobody could've heard —"
"And I don't suppose anyone at all would've seen you, a white boy, jump out of his car and into mine and watch us merrily speed away!"
I looked at her with my head tilted. "Do you really think anyone in that neighborhood would tell the cops anything about anything? White boy or no? They'd be more interested in going through Anton's pockets. Which, come to think of it, is probably exactly what they did."
"You hit the wrong target. I'm just sayin'."
"Well, listen. All that crime stuff, all that killing and everything, that's over. I'm back at work and like I told you, I got a raise today. My focus is on working and doing a good job as a landscaper."
"Hmph!" she said. "So he throws you an extra five bucks a week trimming trees. You still come home filthy and sweaty."
"It's more than five bucks a week, Dorothy. Now, stop it! And we've had the tree-trimming conversation before. There's a lot more to the job than that. Besides, what's wrong with getting dirty while you work? I'd rather get dirty than go back to a life of crime."
She looked like she wanted to say something, but abandoned it. There was no point in arguing about this again. We ate in relative silence.
After dinner, I kissed Dorothy and said, "Gotta go. I'll be back in an hour or so." She gave me a knowing nod and out the door I went.
Low, dark clouds gathered to the south. That meant rain, and probably sooner rather than later. I stepped back inside and grabbed the umbrella.
Early evening heat is tough around here during the summer. When the sun heads for the horizon, it often pukes up as much heat as it can find this time of day. See, it knows that when it goes down, the temperature will eventually go with it, so it wants to keep the temps as high as it can for as long as it can. The air thickens with humidity and you start sweating right away. Or, at least, I do, anyway.
I walked down Margaret Street straight to Catherine, where I turned left. Passing by El Siboney, the greatest Cuban restaurant on earth, the humidity was temporarily defeated by the even heavier aroma of yellow rice and black beans wafting out of their kitchen, blown by some fickle breeze that swished through the streets. A couple of deeeeeep breaths and I smiled.
Once I got out of range of El Siboney, the humidity came back and with it, the rain. I flared my umbrella.
Up Catherine past White to the little house a few blocks up on the left. I climbed the two steps to the stoop and opened the unlocked door.
She was coming out of the kitchen, heading back toward what I used to call the den, but what is now her office. She saw me but didn't smile.
"Hey, Ma," I said, stepping inside and shaking the rain from my umbrella.
Stopping in her tracks, she said, "Well, look who's coming to see his mother. His mother who could've been dead for all he knows. Lying right here on this floor, rotting away, being eaten by maggots."
"Ma, stop. I come visit you every week."
"Oh, sure. Every Friday when you get paid. Come up here to hand me a few bucks like I'm some kind of welfare case."
"You're not a welfare case, Ma."
"Really? Then when was the last time you came to visit when you didn't have a welfare envelope in your hand? Come on! Tell me when!"
"Ma, you're making too much out of this. Can't I come see you without all the drama?"
She said, "Well, all right. Come on in the office."
We went into the den/office. The cheap veneer that was there when I was a kid still lined the walls. The third-rate desk and a small assemble-it-yourself bookshelf were the only other highlights. Oh, and a metal folding chair that leaned folded against one wall. That chair had been there as long as I could remember.
Her laptop sat open on the desk. There was an image of a document on the screen. I didn't bother to look at it. Probably one of the components of her latest fevered scam. She loved separating people from their money. It's how I came to think crime actually wasn't so bad, that it did pay. Because when she made it work, which I have to say was often, it paid pretty well and we were able to make our bills on time.
I put the envelope on her desk, like always, and like always, she ignored it. Pretended it wasn't there. One-third of my income. I could afford it because Dorothy more than made up for it with her little job at City Hall annex. Every once in a while, one of Ma's scams would pay off — not as often as when I was a kid, because she was aiming for the bigger dough nowadays. But when one of them paid off, she'd pull in maybe fifty or sixty grand, but she'd put most of it right back out there, financing her next grift, which would usually not pan out. So I always brought her an envelope every Friday after I got paid. I knew she needed it.
"Ma, guess what?" I said. "I got a raise at work. Roger gave me a raise."
She raised her arms in the air in fake excitement. "Whoa! A raise! You're out there trimming trees all day long and he gives you a raise. What're you gonna do with it? Take that fat whore of yours on a trip around the world?"
"How many times do I have to tell you, Ma? Don't talk about Dorothy that way. She's not a fat whore. She's the woman I love."
"Woman you love, ha!" She spit the words out. "All she wants to do is stick your head in those gargantuan tits of hers so she can control you. So she can make sure you never come visit your mother!"
"He gave me a raise. Can't you be happy for me?"
"I know that Roger. He worked with your father laying the sewer line. He's just like your father, too. Worthless."
"Ma, he's a businessman. I'm working for him, and he had enough faith in me to give me a raise. Why do you have to turn it into something bad?"
"Your father was worthless, too. Drank himself to death long after he left you and me. I was just a teenager with a baby when he left! Nowadays they call it child rape. Back then? Anything but!"
"Okay, Ma." I bent down to kiss her on the forehead. "I'll see you next week." Her attention immediately turned to the document on her screen. I heard her clicking away at the keys when I walked out the front door, into the hard rain.
26
Silvana
Miami, Florida
Friday, August 24, 2012
7:10 PM
BY THE TIME SILVANA LEFT WORK AT FIVE, it had started raining. By the time she got out of the parking lot, it was really coming down. She hated this, absolutely hated having to deal with the rain and rush hour traffic on Fridays, because Friday was when she made her collections. It was a three-hour ordeal, minimum, and in this kind of rain, could easily stretch to four.
She had driven to Dolphin Mall, and for the second straight week, Wilfredo Zayas wasn't there with her envelope. She made a mental note to tell Vargas and Acevedo to track him down and make him hurt for standing her up two weeks in a row.
A couple of other stops, and now she finally swung down Northwest 50th Street. As expected, there was G-Man, obediently waiting where 50th ran into 26th Avenue. His Dodge Charger was a few feet away, and someone was in the passenger seat. Silvana assumed it was Laquita.
Silvana pulled up to where G-Man stood. She lowered her window. "Let's have it," she said.
He slipped her the envelope. She lo
oked inside. One thousand dollars.
"All right," she said. "You got anything else for me?"
"I ain't," G-Man said. "I axed around, but I don't run in them circles, you know what I'm sayin'?"
Silvana did know what he was saying. It would be highly unlikely that a grade Z pimp like G-Man could ever lay a glove on the information she was after. But there was no harm in trying. And the thousand dollar bounty might spur him to great things.
"Keep looking," she told him, and slid the window up.
She was about to drive away, when Laquita got out of the Charger. "Hey, Lieutenant," she said in a raised voice.
Silvana braked her car and put the window back down. "What is it?"
"I hear you tellin' my man here las' week if he find out who smoked that dude at the Dobbs, you cut him some slack on his payments."
"That's right," Silvana said. "He gets a one-week free ride. A thousand dollars falls right in his lap."
"Well … I heard somethin' may be rev … rev… revelant."
"Relevant?" Silvana said.
"Yeah. Relevant." Laquita straightened herself out, pulling down her microskirt so it at least covered her pussy, then giving her big tits a shove so they stuck out of her push-up bra a little more. They must have needed the air. "Anyway, I hear this Russian dude be the one you want."
"Russian?"
"Yeah. He the one hit dat Noon-az or whatever."
"He got a name?" Silvana asked.
"Yeah, but I don't know it. All them foreigner names, they all sound alike, you know what I'm sayin'?"
"How sure are you about this?"
"I don't know,' Laquita said. "I hear somebody sayin' it the other night."
"Who said it?"
"I don't know. Some dude at a party. I wasn't payin' no attention, but he mention this Russian doin' dat Noon-az. I wasn't gonna jump in an' ask him for details, you feel me?"
