STAYING ALIVE (Book Three of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  "The guy who said it. Was he Russian? Black? What?"

  Laquita lifted her chin with more than a little arrogance. "He black, o' course. Whatchu think, I party with dem whiteboy Russians?"

  "What's his name? Was he one of your tricks?" Silvana said.

  "I told you already. I don't know. And I don't know nothin' else. And like I said before, I ain't no ho'!"

  Silvana looked at G-Man. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

  G-Man became anxious. "Honest, Lieutenant. I didn't know nothin' 'bout this. She never told me nothin'." His eyes said Please don't hit me.

  Silvana didn't hit him. Instead, she said, "Look into it. Find out the guy who said that about the Russian, get his name. Or get the Russian's name if you can, and anything else you can learn about him. You've got my number. Call me when you hear anything. Otherwise, I'll see you next week."

  27

  Jimmy

  Hialeah, Florida

  Sunday, August 26, 2012

  4:50 PM

  THE MARLINS CAME TO BAT in the top of the third inning, trailing 1-0. They were playing in Los Angeles and the Dodgers were in a tight race, making a serious run at first place in the National League West. After so much hope and cash had been invested in the Marlins at the beginning of the season, they fizzled early and had pretty much given up any reasonable expectation of doing well.

  None of that bothered Jimmy. He was a rabid fan, a season ticket holder, attending games in Miami when he could, watching the away games when his work permitted. He relaxed in his den with a cold beer and his feet up on the ottoman Nora had bought at Ashley's as part of a set of two chairs and ottomans. The Marlins put a man on first, the tying run, when his cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID. Flaco.

  "Flaco. What's up?"

  "Yo, boss. I braced that dude Rizzo the other day like you said. He say he don't know where Zayas is, where he lives or nothing. But he say Zayas s'posed to meet him here at the 305 today with a coupla bags of black tar."

  "What time?"

  "He tell me six o'clock. But I'm down here now in case he tryin' to pull a fast one and make his buy early, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  "Good thinking," Jimmy said. "I'll be there a little before six."

  He ended the call and Nora came in the room, carrying two bottles of beer. She put one on the table next to him. "Backup," she said, then opened the other one for herself and sat in the other Ashley's chair.

  She reached across to him and touched her longneck to his, and they drank. He glimpsed the TV. The Dodgers still led, 1-0.

  "So what's Alicia going to do with all that money?" she said.

  He swigged from his original bottle, bringing it to nearly empty. "She took it to Panamá on Friday. She told me to keep tomorrow open. I guess she's going to do some other stuff with it, only with me watching. I feel pretty good about it. She really seems to know her shit."

  To the best of his ability, he recited Alicia's spiel about the cash having no real value until it was laundered. Nora seemed to get it.

  "There's a reason why the Colombians trust her," she said. "We've got nothing to worry about."

  Jimmy glimpsed the TV. The Marlins tied the game at one-all. He and Nora drank some more beer.

  He said, "What's wrong, baby?"

  She looked at him funny. "What do you mean, what's wrong?"

  "I mean, what's wrong? I can tell something's not sitting right with you. You've got that expression on your face. That uneasy look."

  She set her beer down on the end table. "Jimmy, have you ever thought of quitting?"

  "Quitting? Quitting what?"

  "You know, quitting. Quitting the business. Quitting Maxie."

  "Hmph! Why would I want to do something like that?"

  "You could do it for us. So we can have a life."

  He said, "We have a life." He spread his arms out, indicating their surroundings. "You don't like this house? Our lifestyle? You've got everything you want."

  "I love our home," she said. "But that's not what I mean. Yes, I have everything I want. Everything but a secure life with you."

  "Nora … what … where is this coming from?"

  "You remember years ago? You told me you might not come home one night? And I accepted that. You remember?"

  "Of course I remember," he said.

  "Well, I'm not so sure I can accept it anymore. I don't want to think you might be killed some night after you leave this house. I couldn't stand it."

  He reached out for her hand with both of his. "That's not going to happen, baby. I promise you. You can't get rid of me that easy."

  "That's just it," she said. "You can't promise me. Because you're not sure yourself. That's the business you're in."

  "Yes," he said, "that's the business I'm in. And I knew going in that once I crossed the line, there was no turning back." His voice mellowed and he said, "Honey, nothing is going to happen. We have a great life right now and it's going to stay that way. No power on earth can take me away from you."

  She wasn't convinced and Jimmy knew it. She took another drink of beer. "What's the score of the game?" she said.

  28

  Jimmy

  Miami, Florida

  Sunday, August 26, 2012

  5:50 PM

  THE USUAL CROWD FILLED THE 305, slashing through nine-ball games at ten or twenty a pop. Not as many gamblers around the tables betting on each shot — this wasn't Saturday night — but there was at least a little action on every table and no shortage of challengers.

  Despite the heat, Jimmy had put on a long-sleeved guayabera before leaving home. It sent the message he was there on serious business, not to shoot nine-ball. And when Flaco, well-known in there, went up to greet him at the door, the respect factor nudged upward a little more.

  "He ain't here yet," Flaco said in a near-whisper.

  Jimmy led him to the bar where they each took a stool. They ordered two beers. When the bartender brought the beers, each man only took a small sip, settling in for a wait.

  Within fifteen seconds, Flaco nudged Jimmy. "There he is. That be Rizzo."

  A dark-complected, disheveled figure of indeterminate age shambled through the door, drawing no attention whatsoever, beyond Jimmy and Flaco. His T-shirt had the name of what might have been a rock band on it, but age and dark stains made the name unreadable. Torn jeans, not the kind you buy that way, ran down his skinny legs to dark sneakers which once gleamed white in the store years ago. Stringy brown hair dangled down the sides of his face and about a week's growth of facial hair — not quite a beard — hid a weak chin. A junkie well on his way out.

  Jimmy said, "We wait. For Zayas."

  Rizzo dropped onto one of the stools against the far wall, pretending to watch a game involving two amateur players who could've used a few lessons. Jimmy figured the challengers were drooling over the possibility of getting a crack at one of them.

  At six-fifteen, Wilfredo Zayas came in, throwing a couple of furtive glances around the room. Jimmy turned away and shielded himself behind Flaco's slight body as best he could. He said, "Is he coming this way?"

  "No," Flaco said. "He seen Rizzo. He's goin' over to that side of the room. To where Rizzo's sitting."

  The two pretended to shake hands as they swapped money for black tar heroin, exchanged a few words with each other, then Rizzo went straight for the back door and the relative safety and solitude of the alley in the rear of the building. Wilfredo sat on a stool and watched the amateurs slap the cue ball around the table.

  "You go around that way, I'll take this way," Jimmy said. "We'll approach him from opposite directions."

  They did and they soon had Wilfredo in their grip, one on each arm. "Hey!" he said. "What the f — Jimmy! Whatchu doin'? What is this?"

  "Out to the back," Jimmy said to Flaco, and they led him out into the alley where Rizzo was heating up his tar.

  Rizzo, all nerves to begin with from needing his fix, nearly leaped out of his skin when the three men cam
e bursting out the door. He nearly dropped his spoon containing the precious mixture, but recovered just in time.

  "Get lost," Jimmy growled.

  "Y-yeah, yeah," Rizzo said, gathering up his shit and running down the alley.

  Jimmy turned back to Wilfredo. "Today's the day, you fucking fuck. You answer for Raúl."

  Panic spilled out of Wilfredo's eyes. His whole body went into trembling mode. "Jimmy, you gotta believe me. I don't know how it happened, but I swear on my Mom it wasn't me! I didn't shoot Raúl. You gotta believe that!"

  "I don't gotta believe shit," Jimmy said. "What I believe is you put two in Raúl's chest while I was just a few feet away from him."

  "Jimmy, no! It wasn't me! I'm tellin' you, I didn't do it!"

  Jimmy regarded Wilfredo as a slimy drug dealer who would say anything to anybody if it helped him. He knew Wilfredo skimmed off Desi Ramos' territory after Desi's "sudden passing". The fucking asshole was certainly not above swearing on his mother if he thought he might avoid having to answer for Raúl. Jimmy wasn't buying a word of this.

  "We were in your room, asshole! Who else knew you were there? Nobody, I'm betting."

  "I-I didn't tell nobody, no. But I'm pretty sure somebody's been following me. For a coupla weeks now."

  "Following you? Who?"

  "I don't know. I-I don't know who it is."

  Flaco landed a big right to Wilfredo's ribs, putting him down to one knee. Jimmy was always amazed every time he saw this, how somebody as skinny as Flaco could unleash such power in his punch.

  "Who's following you, cabrón?" Flaco said.

  "I'm telling you, I don't know. But I can feel it, you know what I'm sayin'? Plus I see this dude sometimes, he in a lotta the same places as me. He at the 305 last week when I went to see Rizzo, I see him in Brownsville one day when I'm sellin' my shit, you know what I'm sayin'? I see him a couple other places, too. I shook him off every time, but he always pop up again, like a piece of toast."

  Jimmy said, "You know him?"

  "Naw, I ain' never seen him before. But I think he Russian."

  "Russian?" Jimmy's eyes widened. "Why do you say that?"

  "I say that 'cause they be the only whiteboys have reason to follow me. Only whiteboys I know. They the ones took away my territory 'round Dolphin Mall and the airport, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  "No, I don't know. Tell me what you're saying?"

  Wilfredo's trembling subsided, but only a little. "I'm sayin' that them Russians came to do me 'cause I had words with 'em when they took over my airport territory. They be following me and found out I was stayin' at the Dobbs and came there to kill me. Only they got Raúl instead."

  "Flaco," Jimmy said. "Go get the car." He tossed Flaco the keys while maintaining a strong half-nelson on Wilfredo.

  Wilfredo, well aware of what was about to happen to him, said, "Jimmy, listen. I can prove I wasn't there. If I can prove I wasn't there, then that means I didn't shoot Raúl, right?"

  "What do you mean, you can prove you weren't there?" He tightened his hold, sending shots of pain into Wilfredo's spine.

  "I-I mean, look, I wasn't at the hotel that night. I was up in Hialeah. Up at Honey Buns, you know what I'm s-sayin'? The strip joint."

  Jimmy knew it. Owned by Maxie Méndez.

  "That's bullshit!" he said. "You came back to the Dobbs and shot Raúl!"

  "No, man, no! I didn't do that!" He stopped pleading and cast about for a piece of evidence, anything that would put him in Honey Buns. "Wait, man! I's there for hours. From, like, eleven till closin' time. An' … an' this stripper! I's tippin' her all night long! I took her back to her place about five AM. She'll tell you!"

  Jimmy loosened his grip. Wilfredo shook himself, trying to shed the pain. Jimmy said, "What's the stripper's name?"

  "Ca-Candy. She Candy, man. I's sittin' ringside. The bitch took me into the VIP lounge for a lap dance and a blow job, you know what I'm sayin'? Then after closing time, we went to her place an' I fucked her till daylight."

  "Where does she live?"

  "Man, she live up in Liberty City. I don't remember the street, but it not too far from Liberty Square. Scary fuckin' part of town, you feel me?"

  Flaco brought the car down the alley. He got out and Jimmy had Wilfredo put his hands on the hood in pat-down position. Then he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Honey Buns.

  "Yeah, this is Jimmy. Put Emilio on."

  In a few seconds he heard, "Jimmy. ¿Cómo estás?"

  "Bien, bien, Emilio. ¿Y tú?"

  "Bien, gracias. ¿Cómo te puedo ayudar?"

  Jimmy said, "Listen, you know Wilfredo Zayas, right? Was he in there a week ago Tuesday?"

  "A week ago Tuesday? Man, I can't say for sure. I know he was in here two or three nights last week, though."

  "I know it's hard to keep track, Emilio. But think about it for a second. Is there anything to put him there a week ago Tuesday? The fourteenth?"

  "Mmmm … no, I cannot be sure, Jimmy. Sorry."

  "Did he hang out with any of the girls?"

  "Oh, yeah," Emilio said. "Candy. La negrita."

  "Is she there now?"

  "No, she doesn't come in till eight."

  Jimmy said, "Let me have her phone number."

  "Sure. Hold on."

  He gave Jimmy the number, Jimmy ended the call, and punched in Candy's number. Within seconds, a tired voice answered.

  "Candy?"

  "Yeah. Who this?"

  "This is Jimmy Quintana."

  Her voice found new energy. "Oh, Jimmy. Hi. Whatchu want?"

  "Did you party with Wilfredo Zayas any night last week? Tell me the truth now."

  Apprehension now: "Yeah. I think I did."

  "You think you did?"

  "What this all about, Jimmy?"

  He said, "Just tell me. Did you party with him?"

  "Well, yeah, I guess."

  "Was he in the club all night?"

  "Mosta the night. From, like, eleven, twelve on. All the way to closing."

  "Did you take him home with you?"

  Candy said, "Jimmy, I don't see what this —"

  "Just answer the fucking question. Did you take him home with you!"

  "Y-yeah. I did."

  "Do you remember what night last week?"

  "Yeah," she said. "It was Tuesday. 'Cause I had Wednesday off, so I know it was Tuesday."

  "You're sure."

  "Dead sure," she said.

  29

  Alicia

  Miami, Florida

  Monday, August 27, 2012

  9:55 AM

  ALICIA, AMY, AND JIMMY MET FOR BREAKFAST at the Croydon in Miami Beach.

  "Everything go okay in Panamá?" Jimmy asked.

  "Smooth as silk," Alicia said. "Your money is in an account held by the Central American Auto Supply Company."

  "Who are they?"

  "Nobody. They're a shell company. They issued one share of stock. A bearer share, held by one of the secretaries at the bank."

  "So why do they have my money?"

  "Somebody's got to have it. Why not them?" Alicia could see Jimmy's frustration. "Sorry for being so flippant about it. It's serious business. Actually, it will all become clear to you today. Your money will be going into a few banks here in Miami."

  Jimmy looked at Amy. She said, "Don't worry, Jimmy. Alicia knows what she's doing. She's the best in the business."

  They left the Croydon after breakfast. First stop: Tropical Bank of Florida, one of many along Brickell Avenue. A big, intimidating downtown bank, catering to midsized corporations headquartered in South Florida, or to international companies with branches here. Also very accustomed to serving large individual depositors, many of them foreigners. Everything tailored to ensure that a six-figure deposit isn't going to raise any eyebrows.

  They parked in the bank's private lot next door, and as they exited Alicia's Bentley, they were accosted by what looked like a wino, or at the very least, somebody who had made an effort
to clean up for this occasion. His fresh shave only highlighted the redness around his eyes and nose. Deep lines in his face told of a rough life, even though Alicia knew him to be around fifty. The iron couldn't get all the wrinkles out of his beige dress shirt, and his tie was stained. His dark brown hair looked okay and at least, when he spoke, it was apparent he was sober. Or close to it.

  "Miss López," he said.

  "Hello, Perry," she said. "How are you today?" They shook hands.

  Jimmy and Amy were clearly in the dark. Alicia noticed them looking at each other, then at her, with WTF in their eyes.

  Perry said, "I'm ready if you are."

  Alicia gestured with both arms. "Let's all go inside."

  The bank lobby was like any other of its size. Massive, gray, and impersonal. They went to a glassed-in area where one of the officers sat. He had obviously expected them.

  "Alicia," he said. "So good to see you."

  "Tom. I'd like you to meet Perry Mazinsky. Perry, this is Tom Thurlow."

  "Mr Mazinsky, welcome to Tropical Bank of Florida." He stuck out his hand. Perry took it.

  Alicia said, "Perry would like to open an account. He's not too familiar with banking, so I'm here to assist him."

  "Well," Thurlow said, "I think we can take care of him today. How much were you looking to deposit?"

  "Two hundred sixteen thousand dollars," Alicia said. "A checking account."

  Without breaking stride, Thurlow reached for some forms in his inbox and started the process, noting Perry's personal data.

  He said, "And how do you wish to deposit this money, Mr Mazinsky?"

  Perry looked blankly at Alicia. She said, "International bank draft. From the Banco de la República de Panamá." Thurlow kept writing without looking up. Eventually, he asked for the check. Alicia told Perry to endorse it, and Thurlow took it.

  He gave Perry a book of temporary checks. "Would you like to order a quantity of permanent checks?"

  Alicia shook her head and Perry said no.

  Thurlow said a few words of thanks and wished everyone a good day. They got up and headed for the door, but Alicia stopped them at the tall table in the middle of the floor that held deposit slips and other forms used by customers. Pens dangled by chains over the side. Alicia tore off the top check and slapped it on the tabletop.